







Class 

Book 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


BY 


BERTHA M. CLAY 


^4JJA^ , 


AUTHOR OF 


“A Dark Marriage Morn/* “A Broken Wedding-Ring/* 
‘‘Dora Thorne/* “Wedded and Parted/* 

“From Out the Gloom/* Etc. 



^'OCTIS 1883 ' 


NEW YORK! 

J. s. OGILVIE & COMPANY, 

31 Rose Street* 


Copyright, 1883, 

By J. S. Ogilvib & Co. 


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V 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


CHAPTEE L 

It was the close of an autumn daj, and Dr. Stephen Letsom 
had been standing for some time at his window watching the 
sun go down. It faded slowly out of the western sky. There 
Lad been a golden flush with the sunset which changed into crim- 
son, then into purple, and finally into dull gray tints that were 
forerunners of the shades of night. Dr. Stephen Letsom had 
watched it with sad, watchful eyes. The leaves on the trees had 
seemed to be dyed first in red, then in purple. The chrysanthe- 
mums changed color with every phase of the sunset; there was 
a wail in the autumn wind as though the trees and flowers were 
mourning over their coming fate. There was something of sad- 
ness in the whole aspect of nature. 

The doctor evidently shared it. The face looking from the 
window was anything but a cheerful one. Perhaps it was not 
the most judicious manner in which the doctor could have spent 
his time — above all, if he v^ished to give people an impression 
that he had a large practice. But Dr. Letsom had ceased to be 
particular in the matter of appearances. He was to all intents 
and purposes a disappointed man. Years before, when his eyes 
were bright with the fires of youth, and hope was strong in his 
heart, he had invested such money as he possessed in the pur- 
chase of a practice at Gastledene, and it had proved to be a 
failure— why, no one exactly knew. 

Castledene was one of the prettiest little towns in Kent. It 
had a town-hall, a market-place, a weekly market, and the re- 
mains of a fine old castle; but it was principally distinguished 
for its races, a yearly event which brought a great influx of vis- 
itors to the town. It was half buried in foliage, surrounded by 
dense woods and green hills, with a clear, swift river running 
by. The inhabitants were divided into three distinct classes — 
the poor, who gained a scanty livelihood by working in the fields, 


10 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


the shop-keepers, and the gentry, the latter class consisting 
principally of old maids and widows, ladies of unblemished 
gentility and limited means. 

Among the latter Dr. Letsom was not popular. He had an 
unpleasant fashion of calling everything by its right name. If 
a lady would take a little more stimulant than was good for her, 
he could not be persuaded to call her complaint “ nervousness;’' 
when idleness and ennui preyed upon a languid frame, he had a 
startling habit of rousing the patient by a mental cautery. The 
poor idolized him, but the ladies pronounced him coarse, 
abrupt, unpleasing; and when ladies decide against a doctor, 
fate frowns upon him. 

How was he to get on in the world? Twenty years before he 
had thought less of getting on than of the interests of science, or 
of doing good; now those ideas were gradually leaving him — 
life had become a stern hand-to-hand fight with hard necessity. 
The poor seemed to be growing poorer — the difficulty of getting 
a fee became greater^ — the ladies seemed more and more deter- 
mined to show their dislike and aversion. 

Matters were growing desperate, thought Dr. Letsom on this 
autumn night, as he stood watching the chrysanthemums and 
the fading light in the western sky. Money was becoming a 
rare commodity with him. His housekeeper, Mrs. Galbraith, 
had long been evincing signs of great discontent. She had not 
enough for her requirements — she wanted money for a hundred 
different things, and the doctor had none to give her. The cur- 
tains were worn and shabby, the carpets full of holes, the furni- 
ture, though clean and well preserved, was totally insufficient. 
In vain the doctor assured her he had 'not the means; after the 
fashion of weak-minded women, she grumbled incessantly. On 
this night he felt overwhelmed with cares. The rent due the 
preceding June had not been paid; the gas and coal accounts 
were still unsettled ; the butcher had sent in his “little bill;” 
the baker had looked anything but pleased at the non-payment 
of his. The doctor sadly wanted a new hat— and he had hardly 
money in hand for the week’s expenses. What was to be done? 

Mrs. Galbraith had retired to rest in a very aggrieved state of 
mind, and the doctor stood watching the stars, as they came out 
one by one in the darkening sky. He was almost tired of the 
struggle; life had not been a grand success with him; he had 
worked hard, yet nothing had seemed to prosper. In his early 
youth he had loved a bright, pretty girl, who had looked for- 
ward to becoming his wife; but he had never married, simply 
• because he had not had the means, and the pretty girl had died 
a sad, disappointed woman. Now, as he watched the stars, he 
fancied them shining on her grave; he fancied the grass waving 
above her head, so long and cool, studded with large white 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


11 


daisies; and he wished that he were lying by her side, free from 
care, and at rest. Strong man as he was his eyes grew dim with 
tears, and his lips trembied with a deep-drawn, bitter sob. 

He was turning away, with a feeling of contempt for his own 
weakness, when he was startled by the sound of a vehicle driven 
furiously down Castle street. What vehicle could it be at that 
hour of the night — nearly eleven? Stephen Letsom stood still 
and watched. He saw a traveling carriage, with two horses, 
driven rapidly up to the door of the principal hotel — the Castle 
Arms — and there stand for some few minutes. It was too dark 
for him to see if any one alighted from it, or what took place; 
but, after a time the horses’ heads were turned, and then, like 
a roll of thunder, came the noise of the carriage-wheels. 

The vehicle drew up before his door, and the doctor stood for 
a few moments as though paralyzed. Then came a violent peal 
of the door-bell; and he knowing that Mrs. Galbraith had re- 
tired for the evening, went to answer it. There indeed, in the 
starlight, were the handsome traveling carriage, the pair of gray 
horses, and the postilion. Stephen Letsom looked about him 
like one in a dream. He had been twenty years in the place, 
yet no carriage had ever stopped at his door. 

He heard a quick, impatient voice, saying: 

“ Are you the doctor — Dr. Letsom?’* 

Looking in the direction of the sound, the doctor saw a tall, 
distinguished-looking man, wrapped in a traveling cloak-:-a 
man whose face and manner indicated at once that he belonged 
to the upper ranks of society. Dr. Stephen Letsom was quick 
to recognize that fact. 

‘‘I am the doctor,” he replied, quietly. 

“ Then for Heaven’s sake, h^’ 



wife has been suddenly taken 


where they tell me they have not a room in which they can 
lodge her. The thing is incredible. You must help me.” 

“ I will do what I can,” returned the doctor. 

Had fortune indeed knocked at his door at last? 

He went to the carriage-door, and, looking inside, saw a lady, 
young and beautiful, who stretched out her hands to him, as 
though appealing for help. 

“ I am very ill,” she moaned, feebly. 

Dr. Letsom guessed so much from her pallid face and shad- 
owed eyes. 

“ What is the matter with your wife?” he asked of the strange 
gentleman, who bent down and whispered something that made 
Dr. Letsom himself look anxious. 

“Now doctor,” said the traveler, “it is useless to raise ob- 
jections. You see how the matter stands; my wife must stop 
here. The hotel is full of visitors— people who are here for the 


12 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

races. There is nowhere else for her to go — she must stay 
here. ” 

“At my house?’’ interrogated the doctor. “It is impos- 
sible.” 

“Why?” asked the stranger, quickly. 

“Because I am not married — 1 have no wife, no sister.” 

“But you have women-servants, surely?” was the hasty re- 
joinder. 

“Only one, and she is not over-clever.” 

“You can get more. My wife must have help. Send all over 
the place — get the best nurses, the best help possible. Do not 
study expense. I will make you a rich man for life if you will 
only help me now. ” 

“I will help you,” said Dr. Letsom. 

For a moment his thoughts flew to the green grave under the 
stars. Riches would come too late, after all; they could not bring 
back life to the dead. 

“Wait one moment,” said the doctor; and he hastened to 
rouse his housekeeper, who, curious and interested, exerted her- 
self so as to satisfy even the stranger. 

Then the strange lady, all white and trembling, was helped 
down from the parlor into the doctor’s shabby little parlor. 

• “ Am I going to die?” she asked, raising her large blue eyes 

to the doctor’s face. 

“ Certainly not,” he replied, promptly; “you must not think 
of dying.” 

^‘But I am very ill; and last night I dreamed that I was 
dead.” 

“Have you any brandy in the house?” asked the traveler. 
“ See how my wife trembles.” 

Alas for the poor doctor! There was neither brandy nor wine. 
With an impatient murmur, the stranger called the postilion 
and sent him to the Castle arms with such an order as made 
Mrs. Galbraith open her eyes in wonder. Then, without seem- 
ing to notice the doctor or his servant, he flung himself on his 
knees by the lady’s side, and kissed the beautiful white face and 
colorless lips. 

“ My darling,” he cried, “ this is my fault. I ought not to 
have asked you to undertake such a journey. Can you ever for- 
give me?” 

She kissed him. 

“You did all for the best, Hubert,” she said, then adding, in 
a whisper: “Do you think 1 shall die?” 

Then the doctor thought it right to interpose. 

“ There is no question of death,” he said; “ but you must be 
quiet. You must have no agitation — that would injure you.” 

Then he and Mrs. Galbraith led the beautiful, trembling girl 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY, 


13 


to the room which the latter had hastily prepared for her, and, 
when she was installed therein, the doctor returned to the 
stranger, who was pacing, with quick, impatient steps, up and 
down the little parlor. 

“ How is she?” he cried, eagerly. 

The doctor shook his head. 

“ She is young and very nervous,” he replied. “ I had better 
tell you at once that she will not be able to leave Castledene for 
a time — all thought of continuing the journey must be aban- 
doned.” 

“ But she is in no danger?” cried the traveler, and Stephen 
Letsom saw an agony of suspense in his face. 

“No, she is not in danger; but she requires and must have 
both rest and care.” 

“ She shall have anything, if Heaven will only spare her. 
Doctor, my best and safest plan will be to make a friend of you, 
to confide in you, and then we can arrange together what had 
better be done. Can you spare me five minutes?” 

Stephen Letsom nodded assent, and sat down to listen to as 
strange a story as he had ever heard. 

“ I should imagine,” said the strange gentleman, “that no 
man likes to plead guilty to a folly. I must do so. Let me 
first of all introduce myself to you as Lord Charlewood. I am 
the only son of the Earl of Mountdean, and my father lies dy- 
ing in Italy. I came of age only last year, and at the same 
time I fell in love. Now I am not in any way dependent on my. 
father — the title and estate are entailed — but I love him. In 
these degenerate days it seems perhaps strange to hear a son 
say that he loves his father. I have obeyed him all my life from 
this motive. I would give my life for him. But in one respect 
I have done that which will cause him great annoyance and 
anger. I have married without his knowledge.” 

The doctor looked up with greater interest; perhaps his 
thoughts reverted to the grave in the starlight. Lord Charle- 
W'ood moved uneasily in his chair. 

“ I cannot say that I am sorry,” he continued, “ for I love my 
wife very dearly; but I do wish now that I had been less hur- 
ried, less precipitate. My wife's great loveliness must be my 
excuse. She is the daughter of a poor curate, the Reverend 
Charles Trevor, who came two years ago to supply temporarily 
the place of the Rector of Lynton. He brought his daughter 
with him; and the first moment I saw her I fell in love with 
her. My heart seemed to go out from me and cleave to her. I 
loved her with what I can see now was the selfish ardor of a 
young man. I had but one thought — to win her. I wrote to 
my father, who was in Italy, and asked bis consent. He refused 


14 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


it in the most decided manner, and told me to think no more of 
what after all was but a boy’s fancy. He was then staying near 
the Lake of Como — staying for the benefit of his health — and I 
went over to see him. I pleaded, prayed, urged my great love 
— all in vain. The earl, my father, only laughed at me, and said 
all young men suffered from the fever called love. I came back 
to England, and found that Mr. Trevor was dead. Madaline, 
his daughter, was left alone in the world. She raised her beau- 
tiful face to mine, poor child, and tried to smile while she talked 
of going out into the world and of working hard for her daily 
bread; and, as I listened, my love seemed to grow stronger and 
deeper. I caught her in my arms, and swore that nothing 
should part us — that, come what would, she must be my wife. 
She was very unwilling — not that she did not love me, but be- 
cause she was afraid of making my father angry; that was her 
great objection. She knew my love for him and his affection 
for me. She would not come between us. It was in vain that 
I prayed her to do as I wished. After a time she consented to 
a compromise — to marry me without my father’s knowledge. It 
was a folly, I own; now I see clearly its imprudence — then I 
imagined it the safest and surest way. I persuaded her, as I 
had persuaded myself, that, when my father once knew that we 
were married, he would forgive us, and all would go well. We 
were married eleven months since, and I have been so happy 
since then that it has seemed to me but a single day. My beau- 
tiful young wife was frightened at the bold step we had taken, 
but I soothed her. I did not take her home to Wood Lynton, 
but, laying aside all the trappings of wealth and title, we have 
traveled from place to place as Mr. and Mrs. Charlewood, en- 
joying our long honeymoon. If we liked any one particular 
spot we remained in it. But a letter from Italy came like a 
thunderbolt — my father had grown rapidly worse and wanted to 
see me at once. If I had been content to go at once, all would 
have been well. I could not endure that he should die without 
seeing, loving, and blessing my wife Madaline. I told her my 
desire, and she consented most cheerfully to accompany me. I 
ought to have known that — in her state of health — traveling 
was most injurious; but I was neglectful of the fact — I listened 
only to my heart’s desire, that my father should see my wife be- 
fore he died. We started on our fatal journey — only this morn- 
ing. At first my wife seemed to enjoy it; and then I saw all the 
color fading from her sweet face. I saw her lips grow white 
and tremble, and I became alarmed. It was not until we reached 
Castledene that she gave in and told me she could go no fur- 
ther, Still you say there is no danger, and that you do not 
think she will die?” 

“ Danger? No, I see none. Life and death lie in the hands of 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 15 

One above us; but, humanely speaking, I see no fear of dan- 
ger.” 

course we cannot get on now,” observed Lord Charle- 
wood, “ at least Lady Charlewood cannot. How long do you 
think my suspense will last?” 

“Not much longer,” was the calm reply. “ By noon to-mor- 
row all will be safe and well, I hope,” 

“I must wait until then,” said Lord Charlewood. “I could 
not leave my wife while even the faintest shadow of danger lies 
over her. If all be well, I can start the day after to-morrow; 
and, please Heaven, I shall be in time to see my father. You 
think I shall have good news for him?” 

“ I have every hope that you will be able to tell him that tho 
heir of the Mountdeans is thriving and well.” 

Lord Charlewood smiled. 

“ Such news as that will more than reconcile him to our mar- 
riage,” he said. After a pause he continued: “ It is a most un- 
fortunate matter; yet I am just as well pleased that my son and 
heir should be born in England. Doctor, there is another thing 
I wish to say. I know perfectly well what these little country 
towns are — everything is a source of gossip and sensation. If 
it were known that such an incident as this had happened to 
me, the papers would be filled with it; and it might fall out 
that my father, the earl, would come to know of it before I my- 
self could tell him. We had better take all proper precautions 
against such a thing. I should j^refer that we be known here 
only as Mr. and Mrs. Charlewood. No one will think of con- 
necting the surname with the title.” 

“ You are quite light,” agreed the doctor. 

“ Another thing I wish to add is that I want you to spare no 
expense — send for the best nurse, the best help it is possible to 
get. Kemember that I am a rich man, and that I would give 
my whole fortune, my life itself a thousand times over to save or 
to serve my wife.” 

Then came a summons for the doctor from the room above, 
and Lord Charlewood was once more left alone. He was a 
young man, and was certainly both a good and honorable one. 
He had never deliberately done anything wicked — on the con- 
trary, he had tried always to do what was best; yet, as he stood 
there, a strange sense of something wanting came over him. 
The young wife he loved with such passionate worship was in 
the hour of need, and he could render no assistance. 

Later on a strange hush had fallen over the doctor’s house. 
It was past one in the morning; the sky was overcast; the wind 
was moaning fitfully, as though a storm was brewing i;i the 
autumn air. The dew lay thick and heavy on the ground. In- 
side the house was the strange hush that dangerous sickness 


16 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


always brings with it. The doctor had in haste summoned the 
best nurse in Castledene, Hannah Fnrney, who shook her head 
gravely when she saw the beautiful pale face. An hour passed, 
and once more Dr. Letsom sought his distinguished guest. 

“I am sorry not to bring better news,” he said. “Lady — 
Mrs. Oharlewood — is not so well as I had hoped she would be. 
Dr. Evans is considered very clever. I should like further ad- 
vice. Shall I send for him?” 

The sudden flash of agony that came into Lord Charlewood’s 
face was a revelation to Dr. Letsom; he laid his hand with a 
gentle touch on the stranger’s arm. 

“ Do not fear the worst, ” he said. “She is in the hands of 
Heaven. I am taking only ordinary precautions. I do not say 
she is in danger —I merely say that she is not so well as I should 
like to see her.” 

Another hour passed, the church clock at Castledene was 
striking two, and Dr. Evans had joined the grave-facod group 
around the sick woman’s bed. He, too, had looked with unut- 
terable compassion on the beautiful young face — he, too, had 
bent forward to listen to the whisper that parted the white lips. 

“ Am I going to die?” she asked. 

He tried to smile and say something about hope; but Nurse 
Eurney knew, and she turned away lest the sick woman’s ques- 
tioning eyes should read what her face betrayed. 

Three o’clock struck. A sweet voice, abrupt and clear, broke 
the silence of the solemn scene. 

“ Hubert! Where is Hubert? I must see him.” 

“Tell him to come,” said Dr. Evans to Dr. Letsom, “but do 
not tell him there is any danger.” 

A few minutes later Lord Oharlewood stood by the side of his 
young wife. 

“Hubert,” she said to him, with outstretched hands, “Hu- 
bert, my husband, I am so frightened. They do not tell me the 
truth. Am I going to die?” 

He bent down to kiss her. 

“ Die, my darling? No, certainly not. You are going to live, 
to be what you always have been, the dearest, sweetest wife in 
the whole world. ” 

And he believed implicitly what he said. 

Then came a strange sleep, half waking, half dreaming. Lady 
Oharlewood fancied that she was with her husband on the sea- 
shore, and that the waves were coming in so fast that they threat- 
ened to drown her, they were advancing in such great sheets of 
foam. Once more she clung to him, crying: 

“Help me, Hubert; I shall be drowned — see how the tide is 
coming in!” 

Then the doctor bade him leave her — he must go down to the 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


17 


shabby, lowly little room, where the gas was burning, and the 
early dawn of the morning was coming in. The agony of un- 
rest was on him. He thought how useless was money, after all; 
here he was with thousands at his command, yet he could not 
purchase help or safety for her whom his soul loved best. He 
was helpless, he could do nothing to assist her; he could trust 
only to Heaven. 

He went from the window to the door; he trembled at the sol- 
emn silence, the terrible hush; he longed for the full light of 
day. Suddenly he heard a sound that stirred the very depths 
of his heart — that brought a crimson flush to his face and tears 
to his eyes. It was the faint cry of a little child. Presently he 
heard the footsteps of Dr. Letsom; and the next minute the doc- 
tor was standing before him, with a grave look on his face. 

“You have a little daughter,” he said — “a beautiful little 
girl — but your wife is in danger; you had better come and see 
her.” 

Even he — the doctor — accustomed to scenes of sorrow and des- 
olation, w^s startled by the cry of pain that came from the 
young man’s lips. 


CHAPTEB II. 

Five o’clock! The chimes had played the hour, the church 
clock had struck; the laborers were going to the fields, the dai- 
ry-maids were beginning their work; the sky had grown clear 
and blue, the long night of agony was over. The Angel of 
Death had spread his wings over the doctor’s house, and awaited 
only the moment when his sword should fall. 

Inside, the scene had hardly changed. The light of the lamp 
seemed to have grown so ghostly that the nurse had turned it 
out, and, drawing the blinds, let the laint morning light come 
in. It fell on the beautiful face that had grown even whiter in 
the presence of death. Lady Charlewood w’as dying; yet the 
feeble arms lield the little child tightly. She looked up as her 
husband entered the room. He had combated by a strong ef- 
fort all outward manifestations of despair. 

“ Hubert,” whispered the sweet, faint voice, “ see, this is our 
little daughter.” 

He bent down, but he could not see the child for the tears 
that filled his eyes. 

“Our little daughter,” she repeated; “and they say, Hubert, 
that I have given my life for hers. Is it true?” 

He looked at the two doctors; he looked at the white face 
bearing the solemn, serene impress of death. It would be cruel 


18 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


to deceive her now, when the hands that caressed the little 
child were already growing colder. 

“Is it true, Hubert?” she repeated, a clear light shining in 
her dying eyes. 

Yes, my darling, it is true,” he said, in a low voice. 

“I am dying — really dying — when I have my baby and you?” 
she questioned. “ Oh, Hubert, is it really true?” 

Nothing but his sobs answered her; dying as she was, all 
sweet, womanly compassion awoke in her heart. 

“Hubert,” she whispered — “oh, my darling, if you could 
come with me! — I want to see you kiss the baby while it lies 
here in my arms.” 

He bent down and kissed the tiny face, she watching him all 
the time. 

“You will be very kind to her, darling, for my sake, because 
you have loved me so much, and call her by my name — Mada- 
line. Tell her about me when she grows up — how young I was 
to die, how dearly I loved you, and how I held her in my arms. 
You will not forget?” 

“No,” he said, gently; “I shall not forget.” 

The hapless young mother kissed the tiny rosebud face, all 
the passion and anguish of her love shining in her dying eyes; 
and then the nurse carried the babe away. 

“Hubert,” said Lady Charlewood, in a low, soft whisper, 
“ may I die in your arms, darling?” 

She laid her head on his breast, and looked at him with the 
sweet content of a little child. 

“I am so young,” she said, gently, “to die — to leave you, 
Hubert. I have been so happy with you — I love you so much.” 

“Oh, my wife, my wife!” he groaned, “how am I to bear it?” 

The white hands softly clasped his own. 

“You will bear it in time,” she said. “I know how you will 
miss me; but you have the baby and your father — you will find 
enough to fill your life. But you will always love me best — I 
know that, Hubert. My heart feels so strange; it seems to stop, 
and then to beat slowly. Lay your face on mine, darling.” 

He did just as she requested, whispering sweet, solemn words 
of comfort; and then, beneath his own he felt her lips grow cold 
and still. Presently he heard one long, deep-drawn sigli. Some 
one raised the sweet head from his breast, and laid it back upon 
the pillow. He knew she was dead. 

He tried to bear it; he said to himself that he must be a man, 
that he had to live for his child’s sake. He tried to rise, but the 
strength of his manhood failed him. With a cry never forgot- 
ten by those who heard it. Lord Charlewood fell with his face 
on the ground. 

Seven o’clock. The full light of day was shining in the sol- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


19 


emn chamber; the faint golden sunbeams touched the beautiful 
white face, so still and solemn in death; the white hands were 
folded, and lay motionless on the quiet heart. Kindly hands 
had brushed back the golden-brown hair; some one had gath- 
ered purple chrysanthemums and laid them round the dead wo- 
man, so that she looked like a marble bride on a bed of flowers. 
Death wore no stern aspect there; the agony and the torture, 
the dread and fear, were all forgotten; there was nothing but 
the sweet smile of one at perfect rest. 

They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fash- 
ion — Stephen Letsom would not have it so — but they had let in 
the fresh air and the sunshine, and had placed autumn flowers 
in the vases. The baby had been carried away — the kind- 
hearted nurse had charge of it. Dr. Evans had gone home, 
haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face. The birds 
were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still 
crushed by his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting- 
room where he had spent so weary a night. 

“I cannot believe it,'’ he said, “or, believing, cannot realize 
it. Do you mean to tell me, doctor, that she who only yester- 
day sat smiling by my side, life of my life, soul of my soul, 
dearer to me than all the world, has gone from me, and that I 
shall see her no more? I cannot, I will not believe it! I shall 
hear her crying for me directly, or she will come smiling into 
the room. Oh, Madaline, my wife, my wife!” 

Stephen Letsom was too clever a man and too wise a doctor to 
make any endeavor to stem such a torrent of grief. He knew 
that it must have its way. He sat patiently listening, speaking 
when he thought a word would-be useful; and Lord Charle- 
wood never knew how much he owed to his kind, unwearied pa- 
tience. 

Presently lie went up to look at his wife, and, kneeling by her 
side, nature’s great comforter came to him. He wept as though 
his heart would break — tears that eased the burning brain, and 
liglitened the heavy heart. Dr. Letsom was a skillful, kindly 
man; he let the tears flow, and made no efifort to stop them. 
Then, after a time, disguised in a glass of wine, he administered 
a sleeping potion, which soon took efiect. He looked with in- 
finite pity on the tired face. What a storm, a tempest of grief 
had this man passed through! 

“It will be kinder and better to let him sleep the day and 
night through, if he can,” said Stejihen to himself. “ He would 
be too ill to attend to any business even if he were awake.” 

So through the silent hours of the day Lord Charlewood slept, 
and the story spread from house to house, until the little town 
rang with it — the story of the travelers, the young husband and 
wife, who, finding no room at the hotel, had gone to the doc- 


20 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


tor’s, where the poor lady had died. Deep sympathy and pity 
were felt and expressed; kind-hearted mothers wept over the 
babe; some few were allowed to enter the solemn death cham- 
ber; and these went away haunted, as Dr. Evans was, by the 
memory of the lovely dead face. Through it all Lord Chaide- 
wood slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion and fatigue, and it was 
the greatest mercy that could have befallen him. 

The hour of wakening was to come — Stephen Letsom never 
forgot it. The bereaved man was frantic in his grief, mad with 
the sense of his loss. Then the doctor, knowing how one great 
sorrow counteracts another, spoke of his father, reminding him 
that if he wished to see him alive he must take some little care 
of himself. 

“I shall not leave her!” cried Lord Charlewood. “Living or 
dead, she is dearer than all the world to me — I shall not leave 
her!” 

“Nor do I wish you to do so,” said the doctor. “I know 
you are a strong man — I believe you to be a brave one; in grief 
of this kind the first great thing is to regain self-control. Try 
to regain yours, and then you will see for yourself what had bet- 
ter be done. ” 

Lord Charlewood discerned the truth. 

“ Have patience with me,” he said, “a little longer; the blow 
is so sudden, so terrible, I cannot yet realize what the world is 
without Madaline.” 

A few hours passed, and the self-control he had struggled for 
was his. He sent for Dr. Letsom. 

“I have been thinking over what is best,” he said, “ and have 
decided on all my plans. Have you leisure to discuss them with 
me?” 

The question seemed almost ironical to the doctor, who had 
so much more time to spare than he cared to have. He sat down 
b}^ Lord Charlewood’s side, and they held together the conver- 
sation that led to such strange results. 

“I should not like a cold, stone grave for my beautiful wife,” 
said Lord Charlewood. “She was so fair, so spirituelle^ she 
loved all nature so dearly; she loved the flowers, trees, and the 
free fresh air of heaven. Let her be where she can have them 
all now’.” 

The doctor looked up with mild reproach in his eyes. 

“ She has something far better than the flowers of this world,” 
he said. “If ever a dead face told of rest and peace, hers does; 
I have never seen such a smile on any other.” 

“I should like to find her a grave where the sun shines and 
the dew falls,” observed Lord Charlewood — “where grass and 
flowers grow and birds sing in the trees overhead. She would 
not seem so far away from me then.” 


WIFE IN -NAME ONLY. 2i 

“You can find many such graves in the pretty church-yard 
here in Castledene,” said the doctor. 

“In time to come,” continued Lord Charlewood, “she shall 
have the grandest marble monument that can be raised, but now 
a plain white cross will be sufficient, with her name, Madaline 
Charlewood; and, doctor, while I am away you will have her 
grave attended to — kept bright with flowers — tended as for some 
one that you loved.” 

Then they went out together to the green church-yard at the 
foot of the hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm, and serene, that 
death seemed robbed of half its terrors; white daisies and golden 
buttercups studded it, the dense foliage of tall lime-trees rip- 
pled above it. The graves were covered with richly-hued au- 
tumn flowers; all was sweet, calm, restful. There was none of 
earth’s fever here. The tall gray spire of the church rose toward 
the clear blue sky. 

Lord Charlewood stood looking around him in silence. 

“I have seen such a scene in pictures,” he said. “1 have 
read of such in poems, but it is the first I have really beheld. 
If my darling could have chosen for herself, she would have pre- 
ferred to rest here.” 

On the western slope, where the warmest and brightest sun- 
beams lay, under the shade of the rippling lime-trees, they laid 
Lady Charlewood to rest. For long years afterward the young 
husband was to carry with him the memory of that green grassy 
grave, A plain white cross bore for the present her name; it 
said simply: 


In Loving Memory o^ 

MADALINE CH ABLE WOOD, 
who died in her 2Q|)h year. 

ERECTED BY HER SORROWING HUSBAND. 

“When I give her the monument she deserves,” he said, “I 
can add no more.” 

They speak of that funeral to this day in Castledene — of the 
sad, tragic story, the fair young mother’s death, the husband’s 
wild despair. They tell how the beautiful stranger was buried 
when the sun shone and the birds sang — how solemnly the 
church-bell' tolled, each knell seeming to cleave the clear sunlit 
air— how the sorrowing young husband, so suddenly and so ter- 
ribly bereft, walked first, the chief mourner in the sad proces- 
sion; they tell how white his face was, and how at each toll of 
the solemn bell he winced as though some one had struck him a 
terrible blow — how he tried hard to control himself, but how at 
the grave, when she was hidden forever from his sight, he 
stretched out his hands, crying, “Madaline, Madaline!” and 


22 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


how for the remainder of that day he shut himself up alone, re- 
fusing to hear the sound of a voice, to look at a human face — 
refusing food, comfort, grieving liive one who has no hope for 
the love he had lost. All Castledene grieved with him; it 
seemed as though death and sorro w had entered every house. 

Then came the morrow, when he had to look his life in the 
face again — life that he found so bitter without Madaline. He 
began to remember his father, who, lying sick unto death, 
craved for his presence. He could do no more for Madaline; 
all his grief, his tears, his bitter sorrow, were useless; he could 
not bring her back; he was powerless where she was concerned. 
But with regard to his father matters were different — to him he 
could take comfort, healing, and consolation. So it was decided 
that he should at once continue his broken journey. 

What of little Madaline, the child who had lier dead mother’s 
large blue eyes and golden hair? Again Lord Charlewood and 
the doctor sat in solemn conclave; this time the fate of the little 
one hung in the balance. 

Lord Charlewood said that if he found his father still weak 
and ill, he should keep the secret of his marriage. Of course, 
if Madaline had lived, all would have been different — he would 
have proudly owned it then. But she was dead. The child 
was so young and so feeble, it seemed doubtful whether it would 
live. What need then to grievC the old earl by the story of his 
folly and his disobedience? Let the secret remain. Stephen 
Letsom quite agreed with him in this; no one knew better than 
himself how dangerous was the telling of bad or disagreeable 
news to a sick man. And then Lord Charlewood added: 

“ You have indeed*been a friend in need to me. Dr. Letsom. 
Money can no more repay such help as yours than can thanks; 
all my life I shall be grateful to you. I am going now to Italy, 
and most probably I shall remain there until the earl, my father, 
grows better, or the end comes. When I return to England, my 
first care shall be to forward your views and prospects in life; 
until then I want you to take charge of my child.” 

Steplien Letsom looked up, with something like a smile. 

“I shall be a rough nurse,” he observed. 

“You understand me,” said Lord Charlewood. “You have 
lived here so long that you know the place and every one in it. 
I have been thinking so much of my little one. It would be ab- 
surd for me to take her to Italy; and as, for my father’s sake, I 
intend to keep my marriage a secret for some time longer, I can- 
not send her to any of my own relatives or friends. I think the 
best plan will be for you to find some healthy, sensible woman, 
who would be nurse and foster-mother to her.” 

“That can easily be managed,” remarked Stephen Letsom. 

“Then you will have both child and nurse entirely under 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


23 


yonr own control. You can superintend all arrangements made 
for the little one's benefit. I have thought of offering to send 
you five hundred per annum, from which you can pay what you 
think proper for the child. You can purchase what is needful 
for her, and you will have an income for yourself. That I beg 
you accept in return for the services you have rendered me.” 

Dr. Letsom expressed his gratitude. He thanked Lord Charle- 
wood, and began at once to look around for some one who 
would be a fitting person to take care of little Madaline. Lord 
Charlewood had expressed a desire to see all settled before leav- 
ing for Italy. 

Among the doctor’s patients was one who had interested him 
very much — Margaret Dornham. She had been a lady’s-maid. 
She was a pretty, graceful woman, gentle and intelligent — wor- 
thy of a far better lot than had fallen to her share. She ought 
to have married a well-to-do tradesman, for whom she would 
have made a most suitable wife; but she had given her love to a 
handsome ne’er do well, with whom she had never had one mo- 
ment of peace or happiness. Henry Dornham had never borne 
a good character; he had a dark, handsome face — a certain kind 
of rich, gypsy -like beauty — but no other qualifications. He was 
neither industrious, nor honest, nor sober. His handsome face, 
his dark eyes, and rich curling hair had won the heart of the 
pretty, graceful, gentle lady’s-maid, and she had married him — 
only to rue the day and hour in which she had first seen him. 

They lived in a picturesque little cottage called Ashwood, and 
there Margaret Dornham passed through the greatest joy and 
greatest sorrow of her life. Her little child, the one gleam of 
sunshine that her darkened life had ever known, was born in the 
little cottage, and there it had died. 

Dr. Letsom, who was too abrupt for the ladies of Castledene, 
had watched with the greatest and most untiring care over the 
fragile life of that little child. He had exerted his utmost skill 
in order to save it. But all was in vain; and on the very day 
that Lord Charlewood arrived at Castledene the child died. 

When a tender nurse and foster-mother was needed for little 
Madaline, the doctor thought of Margaret Dornham. He felt 
that all difficulty was at an end. He sent for her. Even Lord 
Charlewood looked with interest at the graceful, timid woman, 
whose fair young face was so deeply marked with lines of care. 

“ Will I take charge of a little child?” she replied to the doc- 
tor’s question. “Indeed I will, and thank Heaven for sending 
me something to keep my heart from breaking.” 

“You feel the loss of your own little one very keenly?” said 
Lord Charlewood. 

“ Feel it, sir? All the heart I have lies in my baby’s grave.” 

“ You must give a little of it to mine, since Heaven has taken 


24 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


its own mother,” he said, gently. “I am not going to try to 
bribe you with money — money does not buy the love and care 
of good women like you — but I ask you, for the love you bore 
to youi own child, to be kind to mine. Try to think, if you 
can, that it is your own child brought back to you.” 

“I will,” she promised, and she kept her word, 

“ You will spare neither expense nor trouble,” he continued, 
y and when I return you shall be most richly recompensed. If 
all goes well, and the little one prospers with you, I shall leave 
her with you for two or three years at least. You have been a 
lady’s-maid, the doctor tells me. In what families have you 
lived?” 

“Principally with Lady L’Estrange, of Verdun Boyal, sir,” 
she replied. “I left because Miss L’Estrange was growing up, 
and my lady wished to have a French maid.” 

In after years he thought how strange it was that he should 
have asked the question. 

“I want you,” said Lord Charlewood, “to devote yourself 
entirely to the little one; you will be so liberally paid as not to 
need work of any other kind. I am going abroad, but I leave 
Dr. Letsom as the guardian of the child; apply to him for every- 
thing you want, as you will not be able to communicate with 
me.” 

He watched her as she took the child in her arms. He was 
satisfied when he saw the light that came into her face; he knew 
that little Madaline would & well cared for. He placed a bank 
note for fifty pounds in the woman’s hands. 

“Buy all that is needful for the little one,” he said. 

In all things Margaret Dorn ham promised obedience. One 
would have thought she had found a great treasure. To her 
kindly, womanly heart, the fact that she once more held a 
little child in her arms was a source of the purest happi- 
ness. The only drawback was w'hen she reached home, and her 
husband laughed coarsely at the sad little story. 

“ You have done a good day’s work, Maggie,” he said; “ now 
I shall expect you to keep me, and I shall take it easy.” 

He kept his word, and from that day made no further effort 
to earn any money. 

“ Maggie had enough for both,” he said — “for both of them 
and that bit of a child.” 

Faithful, patient Margaret never complained, and not even 
Dr. Letsom knew how the suffering of her daily life had in- 
creased, even though she was comforted by the love of the little 
child. 


WIFE IN NAIVIE ONLY. 


25 


CHAPTEK III. 

• 

Maclaline slept in her grave — her child was safe and happy 
with the kindly, tender woman who was to supply its mother’s 
place. Then Lord Charlewood prepared to leave the place 
where he had suffered so bitterly. The secret of his title had 
been well kept. No one dreamed that the stranger whose visit 
to the little town had been such a sad one was the son of 
one of England’s earls. Charlewood did not strike any one as 
being a very uncommon name. There was not the least suspi- 
cion as to his real identity. People thought he must be rich; 
but that he was noble also no one ever imagined. 

Mary Galbraith, the doctor’s housekeeper, thought a golden 
shower had fallen over the bouse. Where there had been abso- 
lute poverty there was now abundance. There were no more 
shabby curtains and threadbare carpets — everything was new 
and comfortable. The doctor seemed to have grown younger — 
relieved as he was from a killing weight of anxiety and care. 

The day came when Lord Charlewood was to say good-by to 
his little daughter, and the friends who had been friends indeed. 
Margaret Dornham was sent for. When she arrived thd two 
gentlemen were in the parlor, and she was shown in to them. 
Every detail of that interview was impressed on Margaret’s 
mind. The table was strewn with papers, and Lord Gharle- 
wood, taking some in his hand, said: 

“ You should have a safe place for those, doctor. Strange 
events happen in life. They might possibly be required some 
day as evidences of identification.” 

“Not much fear of that,” returned the doctor, with a smile. 
“Still, as you say, it is best to be cautious.” 

“Here is the first — you may as well keep it with the rest,” 
said Lord Charlewood; “ it is a copy of my marriage certificate. 
Then you have here the certificates of my little daughter’s birth 
and of my poor wife’s death. Now we will add to these a signed 
agreement between you and myself for the sum I have spoken 
about.” 

Kapidly enough Lord Charlewood filled up another paper, 
which was signed by the doctor and himself; then Stephen Let- 
som gathered them all together. Margaret Dornham saw him 
take from the sideboard a plain oaken box bound in brass, and 
lock the papers in it. 

“There will be no difficulty about the little lady’s identifica- 
tion while this lasts,” he said, “ and the papers remain unde- 
stroyed.” 


26 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


She could not account for the impulse that led her to watch 
him so closely, while she wondered what the papers could be 
worth. 

Then both gentlemen turned their attention from the box to 
the child. Lord Charlewood would be leaving directly, and it 
would be the last time that he, at least, could see the little one. 
There was all a woman’s love in his heart and in his face, as he 
bent down to kiss it and say farewell. 

“ In three years’ time, when I come back again,” he said, 
“ she will be three years old — she will walk and talk. You must 
teach her to say my name, Mrs. Dornham, and teach her to love 
me.” 

Then he bade farewell to the doctor who had been so kind a 
friend to him, leaving something in his hand which made his 
heart light for many a long day afterward. 

“I am a bad correspondent. Dr. Letsom,” he said; “I never 
write many letters — but you may rely upon hearing from me 
every six months. I shall send you half-yearly checks — and 
you may expect me in three years from this at latest; then my 
little Madaline will be of a manageable age, and I can take her 
to Wood Lynton.” 

So they parted, the two who had been so strangely brought 
together — parted with a sense of liking and trust common 
among Englishmen who feel more than they express. Lord 
Charlewood looked round him as he left the town. 

“How little I thought,” he said, “that I should leave my 
dead wife and living child here! It was a town so strange to 
me that I hardly even knew its name.” 

On arriving at his destination, to his great joy, and somewhat 
to his surprise. Lord Charlewood found that his father was bet- 
ter; he had been afraid of finding him dead. The old man’s 
joy on seeing his son again was almost pitiful in its excess — he 
held his hands in his. 

“My son — my only son! why did you not come sooner?” he 
asked. “ I have longed so for you. You have brought life and 
healing with you; I shall live years longer now that I have you 
again.” 

And in the first excitement of such happiness Lord Cbarle- 
wood did not dare to tell his father the mournful story of his 
marriage and of his young wife’s untimely death. Then the 
doctors told him that the old earl might live for some few years 
longer, but that he would require the greatest care; he had cer- 
tainly heart-disease, and any sudden excitement, any great 
anxiety, any cause of trouble might kill him. at once. Knowing 
this Lord Charlewood did not dare to tell his secret; it would 
have been plunging his father into danger uselessly; besides 
which the telling of it was useless now — his beautiful wife was 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


27 


dead; and the child too young to be recognized or made of con- 
sequence. So he devoted himself to the earl, having decided 
in his own mind what steps to take. If the earl lived until lit- 
tle Madaline reached her third year, then he would tell him his 
secret; the child would be pretty and graceful — she would, in all 
probability, win his love. He could not let it go on longer than 
that. Madaline could not remain unknown and uncared for in 
that little county town; it was not to be thought of. Therefore, 
if his father lived, and all went well, he would tell his story 
then; if, on the contrary, his health failed, then he would keep 
his secret altogether, and his father would never know that he 
had disobeyed him. 

There was a wonderful affection between this father and son. 
The earl was the first to notice the change that had come over 
his bright, handsome boy; the music had all gone from his 
voice, the ring from his laughter, the light from his face. Pres- 
ently he observed the deep mourning dress. 

“ Hubert,” he asked, suddenly, “ for whom are you in mourn- 
ing?” 

Lord Charlewood’s face flushed. For one moment he felt 
tempted to answer — 

“For my beloved wife whom Heaven has taken from me.” 

But he remembered the probable consequence of such a shock 
to his father, and replied, quietly: 

“ For one of my friends, father — one whom you did not 
know.” And Lord Mountdean did not suspect. 

Another time the old earl placed his arm round his son’s 
neck. 

“ How I wish, Hubert,” he said, “ that your mother had lived 
to see you a grown man ! I think — do not laugh at me, my son 
— I think yours is perfect manhood; you please me infinitely.” 

Lord Charlewood smiled at the simple, loving praise. 

“I have a woman’s pride in your laandsome face and tall, 
stately figure. How glad I am, my son, that no cloud has ever 
come between us! You have been the best of sons to me. When 
I die you can say to yourself that you have never once in all 
your life given me one moment’s pain. How pleased I am that 
you gave up that foolish marriage for my sake! You would not 
have been happy. Heaven never blesses such marriages.” 

He little knew that each word was as a dagger to his son’s 
heart. 

“After you had left me and had gone back to England,” he 
continued, “I used to wonder if I had done wisely or well in 
refusing you your heart’s desire; now I know that I did well, 
for unequal marriages never prosper. She, the girl you loved, 
may have been very beautiful, but you would never have been 
happy with her.” 


28 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


‘‘Hush, father!” said Lord Charlewood, gently. “We will 
not speak of this again.” 

“Does it still pain you? tell me, my son,” cried the earl. 

“Not in the way you think,” he replied. 

“I would not pain you for the world — you know that, Hu- 
bert. But you must not let that one unfortunate love affair 
prejudice you against marriage. I should like to see you mar- 
ried, my son. I should like you to love some noble, gentle 
lady whom I could call daughter; I should like to hold your 
children in my arms, to hear the music of children’s voices be- 
fore I go.” 

“ Should you love my children so much, father?” he asked. 

“Yes, more than I can tell you. You must marry, Hubert; 
and then, as far as you are concerned, I shall not have a wish 
left unfulfilled.” 

There was hope then for his little Madaline — hope that in time 
she would win the old earl’s heart, and prevent his grieving over 
the unfortunate marriage. For two years and a half the Earl of 
Mountdean lingered; the fair Italian clime, the warmth, the 
sunshine, the flowers, all seemed to join in giving him new life. 
For two years and a half he improved, so that his son had be- 
gun to hope that he might return , to England, and once more 
see the home he loved so dearly — Wood Lynton; and, though 
during this time his secret preyed upon him through every hour 
of every day, causing him to long to tell his father, yet he con- 
trolled the longing, because he would do nothing that might in 
the least degree retard his recovery. Then, when the two years 
and a half had passed, and he began to take counsel with him- 
self how he could best break the intelligence, the earl’s health 
suddenly failed him, and he could not accomplish his purpose. 

During this time he had every six months sent regular remit- 
tances to England, and had received in return most encouraging 
letters about little Madaline. She was growing strong and 
beautiful; she was healthy, fair, and happy. She could say his 
name; she could sing little baby-songs. Once the doctor cut a 
long golden-brown curl from her little head and sent it to him; 
but when he received it the earl lay dying, and the son could 
not show his father his little child’s hair. He died as he had 
lived, loving and trusting his son, clasj^ing his hand to the last, 
and murmuring sweet and tender words to him. Lord Charle- 
wood’s heart smote him as he listened; he had not merited such 
implicit faith and trust. 

“Father,” he said, “listen for one moment! Can you hear 
me? I did marry Madaline — I loved her so dearly, I could not 
help it — I married her; and she died one year afterward. But 
she left me a little daughter. Can you hear me, father?” 

No gleam of light came into the dying eyes, no consciousness 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


29 


into the quiet face; the earl did not hear. When, at last, his son 
had made up his mind to reveal his secret, it was too late for his 
father to hear — and he died without knowing it. He died, and 
was brought back to England, and buried with great pomp and 
magnificence; and then his son reigned in his stead, and became 
Earl of Mountdeaii. The first thing that he did after his 
father's funeral was to go down to Castledene; he had made all 
arrangements for bringing his daughter and heiress home. He 
was longing most impatiently to see her; but when he reached 
the little town a shock of surprise awaited him that almost cost 
him his life. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

Dr. Letsom had prospered; one gleam of good fortune had 
brought with it a sudden outburst of sunshine. The doctor had 
left his little house in Castle street, and had taken a pretty villa 
just outside Castledene. He had furnished it nicely — white lace 
curtains were no longer an unattainable luxury; no house in the 
town looked so clean, so bright, or so pretty as the doctor’s. 
People began to look up to him; it was rumored that he had had 
money, left to him — a fortune that rendered him independent of 
his practice. No sooner was that quite understood than people 
began to find out that after all he was a very clever man. No 
sooner did they feel quite convinced that he was indifferent 
about his practice than they at once appreciated his services; 
what had been called abruptness now became truth and sinceri- 
ty. He was declared to be like Dr. Abernethy — wonderfully 
clever, though slightly brusque in manner. Patients began to 
admire him; one or two instances of wonderful cures were 
quoted in his favor; the world, true to itself, true to its own 
maxims, began to respect him when it was believed that he had 
good fortune for his friend. In one year’s time he had the best 
practice in the town, the ladies found his manner so much im- 
proved. 

He bore his good-fortune as he had borne his ill-fortune, with 
great equanimity; it had come too late. If but a tithe of it had 
fallen to his share twelve years earlier, he might have made the 
woman he loved so dearly "his wife. She might have been living 
— loving, happy, by his side. Nothing could bring her back — 
the good-fortune had come all too late; still he was grateful for 
it. It was pleasant to be able to pay his bills when they became 
due, to be able to help his poorer neighbors, to be able to afford 
for himself little luxuries such as he had long been without. 
The greatest happiness he had now in life was his love for little 


30 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Madaline. The hold she had taken of him was marvelous; 
from the first moment she held out her baby -hands until the last 
in which he saw her she was his one dream of delight. At first 
he had visited Ashwood as a matter of duty; but, as time passed 
on those visits became his dearest pleasures. The child began to 
know him, her lovely little face to brighten for him; she had no 
fear of him, but would sit on his knee and lisp her pretty stories 
and sing her pretty songs until he was fairly enchanted. 

Madaline was a lovely child. She had a beautiful head and 
face, and a figure exquisitely molded. Her smiles were like sun- 
shine; her hair had in it threads of gold; her eyes were of the 
deep blue that one sees in summer. It was not only her great 
loveliness, but there was about her a wonderful charm, a fasci- 
nation, that no one could resist. 

Dr. Letsom loved the child. She sat on his knee and talked 
to him, until the whole face of the earth seemed changed to him. 
Besides his great love for the little Madaline, he became inter- 
ested in the story of Margaret Dornham’s life — in her love for 
the handsome, reckless ne’er-do-well who had given up work 
as a failure — in her wonderful patience, for she never complained 
— in her sublime heroism, for she bore all as a martyr. He 
heard how Henry Dornham was often seen intoxicated — heard ^ 
that he was abusive, violent. He went afterward to the cottage, 
and saw bruises on his wife’s delicate arms and hands — dark 
cruel marks on her face; but by neither word nor look did she 
ever betray her husband. Watching that silent, heroic life, he 
became interested in her. More than once he tried to speak 
to her about her husband — to see if anything could be done to 
reclaim him. She knew that all efforts were in vain — there was 
no good in him; still more she knew now that there never had 
been such good as she had hoped and believed. Another thing 
pleased and interested the doctor — it was Margaret Dornham ’s 
passionate love for her foster child. All the love that she would 
have lavished on her husband, all the love that she would have 
given to her own child, all the repressed affection and buried 
tenderness of heart were given to this little one. It was touch- 
ing, pitiful, sad, to see how she worshiped her. 

“ What shall I do when the three years are over, and her 
father comes to claim her?” she would say to the doctor. “I 
shall never be able to part with her. Sometimes I think I shall 
run away with her and hide her.” 

How little she dreamed that there was a prophecy in the 
words! 

“ Her father has the first claim,” said Dr. Letsom. “ It may 
be hard for us to lose her, but she belongs to him.” 

He will never love her as I do,” observed Margaret Dorn- 
ham. 


WIFE m NAME ONLY. 31 

Of the l^eal rank and position of that father she had not the 
•taintest suspicion. He had money, she knew; but that was all 
she knew— and money to a woman whose heart hungers for love 
seems very little. 

“There is something almost terrible in the love of that wo- 
man for that child, thought the doctor. “ She is good, earnest, 
tender, true, by nature; but she is capable of anything for the 
little one’s sake.” 

So the two years and a half passed, and the child, with her 
delicate, marvelous grace, had become the very light of those 
two lonely lives. In another six months they would have to lose 
her. Dr. Letsom knew very well that if the earl were still living 
at the end of the three years his son would tell him of his mar- 
riage. 

On a bright, sunshiny day in June the doctor walked over to 
Ash wood. He had a little i^acket of fruit and cakes with him, 
and a wonderful doll, dressed most royally. 

“ Madalinei” he cried, as he entered the cottage, and she came 
running to him, “ should you like a drive with me to-morrow?” 
he asked. “ I am going to Corfell, and I will promise to take 
you if you will be a good girl.” 

She promised— for a drive with the doctor was her greatest 
earthly delight. 

“Bring her to my house about three to-morrow afternoon, 
Mrs. Dornham,” said Dr. Letsom, “and she shall have her 
drive. ” 

Margaret promised. When the time came she took the little 
one, dressed in her pretty white frock; and as they sat in the 
drawing-room, the doctor was brought home to his house— dead. 

It was such a simple yet terrible accident that had killed him. 
A poor man had been injured by a kick from a horse. For want 
of better accommodation, he had been carried up into aloft over 
a stable, where the doctor attended him. In the loft was an 
open trap-door, through which trusses of hay and straw were 
raised and lowered. No one warned Dr. Letsom about it. The 
aperture was covered with straw, and he, walking quickly across, 
fell through. There was but one comfort— he did not suffer 
long. His death was instantaneous; and on the bright June 
afternoon when he \vas to have taken little Madaline for a drive, 
he was carried home, through the sunlit streets, dead. 

Margaret Dornham and the little child sat waiting for him 
wdien the sad procession stopped at the door. 

“The doctor is dead!” was the cry from one to another. 

A terrible pain shot through Margaret’s head. Dead! The 
kindly man, who had been her only friend, dead! Then per- 
haps the child would be taken from her, and she should see it 
no morel 


32 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


An impulse, for which she could hardly account, and for 
which she was hardly responsible, seized her. She must have 
the box that contained the papers, lest, finding the papers, peo- 
ple should rob her of the child. Quick as thought, she seized 
the box — which always stood on a bracket in the drawing-room 
— and hid it under her shawl. To the end of her life she was 
puzzled as to why she had done this. It would not be missed, 
she knew, in the confusion that was likely to ensue. She felt 
sure, also, that no one, save herself and the child’s father, knew 
of its contents. 

She did not wait long in that scene of confusion and sorrow. 
Clasping the child in her arms, lest she should see the dead face, 
Margaret Dornham hurried back to the cottage, bearing with 
her the proofs of the child’s identity. 

The doctor was buried, and with him all trace of the child 
seemed lost. Careful search was made in his house for any let- 
ters that might concern her, that might give her father’s address; 
but Stephen Letsom had been faitliful to his promise — he had 
kept the secret. There was nothing that could give the least 
clew. There were no letters, no memoranda; and, after a time, 
people came to the conclusion that it would be better to let the 
child remain where she was, for her father would be sure in 
time to hear of the doctor’s death and to claim her. 

So September came, with its glory of autumn leaves. Just 
three years had elapsed since Lady Charlewood had died; and 
then the great trouble of her life came to Margaret Dornham. 


CHAPTEK Y. 

On the day after Dr. Letsom’s death, Margaret Dornham’s 
husband was apprehended on a charge of poaching and aiding 
in a dangerous assault on Lord Turton’s gamekeepers. Bail 
was refused for him, but at the trial he was acquitted for want 
of evidence. Every one knew he was guilty. He made no 
great effort to conceal it. But he defied the whole legal power 
of England to prove him guilty. He employed clever counsel, 
and the result was his acquittal. He was free; but the prison 
brand was on him, and his wife felt that she could not endure 
the disgrace. 

“I shall go from bad to worse now, Maggie,” he said to her. 
“I do not find prison so bad, nor yet difficult to bear; if ever I 
see by any lucky hit I can make myself a rich man, I shall not 
mind a few years in jail as the price. A forgery, or something 
of that kind, or the robbery of a well-stocked bank, will be 
henceforward my highest aim in life.” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


33 


She placed her band on his lips and prayed him for Heaven’s 
sake to be silent. He only laughed. 

“Nature never intended me to work — she did not indeed, 
Maggie. My fellow-men must keep me; they keep others far 
less deserving.” 

From that moment she knew no peace or rest. He would 
keep his word; he would look upon crime as a source of profit; 
he would watch his opportunity of wrong-doing, and seize it 
when it came. 

In the anguish of her heart she cried aloud that it must not 
be at Ash wood; anywhere else, in any other spot, but not there, 
where she had been known in the pride of her fair young life — 
not there, where people had warned her not to marry the hand- 
some, reckless, ne’er-do-well, and had prophesied such terrible 
evil for her if she did marry him — not there, where earth was 
so fair, where all nature told of innocence and purity. If he 
must sin, let it be far away in large cities where the ways of men 
were evil. 

She decided on leaving Ashwood. Another and perhaps even 
stronger motive that influenced her was her passionate love for 
the child; that was her one hope in life, her one sheet-anchor, 
the one thing that preserved her from the utter madness of 
desolation. 

The three years had almost elapsed; the doctor was dead, 
and had left nothing behind him that could give any clew to 
Madaline’s identity, and in a short time — she trembled to think 
how short — the father would come to claim his child, and she 
would lose her. When she thought of that, Margaret Dorn- 
ham clung to the little one in a passion of despair. She would 
go away and take Madaline with her — keep her where she could 
love her — where she could bring her up as her own child, and 
lavish all the warmth and devotion of her nature upon her. 
She never once thought that in acting thus she was doing a sel- 
fish, a cruel deed — that she was taking the child from her father, 
who of all people living had the greatest claim upon her. 

“He may have more money than I have,” thought poor, mis- 
taken Margaret, “ but he cannot love her so much; and after all 
love is better than money.” 

It was easy to manage her husband. She had said but little 
to him at the time she undertook the charge of little Madaline, 
and he had been too indifferent to make inquiries. She told 
him now, what was in some measure quite true, that with the 
doctor’s death her income had ceased, and that she herself not 
only was perfectly ignorant of the child’s real name, but did 
not even know to whom to write. It was true, but she knew at 
the same time that, if she would only open the box of papers, 
she would not be ignorant of any one point; for those papers 


34 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


she had firmly resolved never to touch, so that in saving she 
knew nothing of the child’s identity she would be speaking the 
bare truth. 

At first Henry Hornham was indignant. The child should 
not be left a burden and drag on his hands, he declared — it must 
go to the work-house. 

But patient Margaret clasped her arms round his neck, and 
whispered to him that the child was so clever, so pretty, she 
would be a gold-mine to them in the future — only let them get 
away from Ashwood, and go to London, where she could be 
well trained and taught. He laughed a sneering laugh, for 
which, had he been any other than her husband, she would have 
hated him. 

“Not a bad plan, Maggie,” he said; “then she can work to 
keep us. I, myself, do not care where we go or what we do, so 
that no one asks me to work.” 

He was easily persuaded to say nothing about their removal, 
to go to London without saying anything to his old friends and 
neighbors of their intentions. Margaret knew well that so many 
were interested in the child that she would not be allowed to 
take her away if her wish became known. 

How long the little cottage at Ashwood had been empty no 
one knows. It stood so entirely alone that for weeks together 
nothing was seen or known of its inhabitants. Henry Dornham 
was missed from his haunts. His friends and comrades won- 
dered for a few days, and then forgot him; they thought that in 
all probability he was engaged in some not very reputable pur- 
suit. 

The rector of Castledene — the Khv. John Darnley — was the 
first really to miss them. He had always been interested in lit- 
tle Madaline. When he heard from the shop keepers that Mar- 
garet had not been seen in the town lately, he feared she was ill, 
and resolved to go and see her. His astonishment was great 
when he found the cottage closed and the Dornhams gone — the 
place had evidently been empty for some weeks. On inquiry 
he found that the time of their departure and the place of their 
destination was equally unknown. No one knew whither they 
had gone or anything about them. Mr. Darnley was puzzled; 
it seemed to him very strange that, after having lived in the 
place so long, Margaret Dornham should have left without say- 
ing one word to any human being. 

“There is a mystery in it,” thought the rector. He never 
dreamed that the cause of the mystery was the woman’s pas- 
sionate love for the child. 

All Castledene wondered with him — indeed, for some days the 
little town was all excitement. Margaret Dornham had disap- 
peared with the child who had been left in their midst. Every 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


35 


one seemed to be more or less responsible for her; but neither 
wonder nor anything else gave them the least clew as to whither 
or why she had gone. After a few day’s earnest discussion and 
inquiry the excitement died away, when a wonderful event re- 
vived it. It was no other than the arrival of the new Earl of 
Mountdean in search of his little girl. 

This time the visitor did not take any pains to conceal his 
title. He drove to the “Castle Arms,” and from there went at 
once to the doctor’s house. He found it closed and empty. The 
first person he asked told him that the doctor had been for 
some weeks dead and buried. 

The young earl was terribly shocked. Dead and buried — the 
kindly man who had befriended him in the hour of need! It 
seemed almost incredible. And why had no one written to 
him? Still he remembered the address of his child’s foster- 
mother. It was Ashwood Cottage; and he went thither at once. 
When he found that too closed and deserted, it seemed to him 
that fortune was playing him a trick. 

He was disconcerted; and then, believing that this at least 
was but a case of removal, he decided upon going to the rector 
of the parish, whom he well remembered. He surely would be 
able to give him all information. 

Mr. Darnley looked up in wonder at the announcement of his 
visitor’s name — the Earl of Mountdean. What could the earl 
possibly want of him? 

His wonder deepened as he recognized in the earl the stranger 
at the burial of whose fair young wife he had assisted three 
years before. The earl held out his hand. 

“ You are surprised to see me, Dr. Darnley? You recog- 
nize me, I perceive.” 

The rector contrived to say something about his surprise, but 
Lord Mountdean interrupted him hastily : 

“ Yes, I understand. I was traveling as Mr. Charlewood 
when my terrible misfortune overtook me here. I have re- 
turned from Italy, where I have been spending the last three 
years. My father has just died, and I am here in search of my 
child. My child,” continued the earl, seeing the rector’s blank 
face — “ where is she? I find my poor friend the doctor is dead, 
and the house where my little one’s foster-mother lived is empty. 
Can you tell me what it means?” 

He tried to speak calmly, but his handsome face had grown 
quite white, his lips were dry and hot, his voice, even to himself, 
had a strange, harsh sound. 

“Where is she?” he repeated. “The little one — my Mada- 
line’s child ? I have a strange feeling that all is not well. Where 
is my child?” 


36 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He saw the shadow deepen on the rector’s face, and he clasped 
his arm. 

“Where is she?” he cried. “You cannot mean that she is 
dead? Not dead, surely? I have not seen her since I left her, 
a little, feeble baby; but she lias lived in my heart through all 
these weary years of exile. My whole soul has hungered and 
thirsted for her. By night and by day I have dreamed of her, 
always with Madaline’s face. She has spoken sweet words to 
me in my dreams, always in Madaline’s voice. I must see her. 
I cannot bear this suspense. You do not answer me. Can it be 
that she too is dead?” 

“No, she is not dead,” replied the rector. “I saw her two 
months since, and she was then living — well, beautiful, and 
happy. No, the little one is not dead. ” 

“Then tell me, for pity’s sake, where she is!” cried the earl, 
in an agony of impatience. 

“I cannot. Two months since I was at Ashwood Cottage. 
Margaret Dornham’s worthless husband was in some great trou- 
ble. I went to console his wife; and then I saw the little one. 
I held her in my arms, and thought, as I looked at her, that I 
had never seen such a lovely face. Then I saw no more of her; 
and my wonder was aroused on hearing some of the tradespeo- 
ple say that Mrs. Dornham had not been in town for some 
weeks. I believed she was ill, and went to see. My wonder 
was as great as your own at finding the house closed. Husband, 
wife, and child had disappeared as though by magic from the 
place, leaving no clew pr trace behind them. ” 

The rector was almost alarmed at the effect of his words. The 
young earl fell back in his chair, looking as though the shadow 
of death had fallen over him. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

It was but a child, the rector thought to himself, whom its 
father had seen but a few times. He did not understand that to 
Lord Mountdean this child — his dying wife’s legacy — was the 
one object in life, that she was all that remained to him of a love 
that had been dearer than life itself. Commonplace words of 
comfort rose to his lips, but the earl did not even hear them. 
He looked up suddenly, with a ghastly pallor still on his face. 

“How foolish I am to alarm myself so greatly!” he said. 
“Some one or other will be sure to know whither the woman 
has gone. She may have had some monetary trouble, and so 
have desired to keep her whereabouts a secret; but some one or 
other will know. If she is in the world I will find her. How 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


37 


foolish I am to be so terribly frightened! If the child is living 
what have I to fear?” 

But, tliough his words were brave and courageous, his hands 
trembled, and the rector saw signs of great agitation. He rang 
for wine, but Lord Mountdean could not take it — he could do 
nothing until he had found his child. 

In few words he told the rector the story of his marriage. 

“I thought,” he said, “that I could not do better for the lit- 
tle one than leave her here in the doctor’s care. ” 

“You were right,” returned the rector; “the poor doctor’s 
love for the child was talked about everywhere. As for Marga- 
ret Dornham, I do not think, if she had been her own, she could 
have loved her batter. Whatever else may have gone wrong, 
take my word for it, there was no lack of love for the child; she 
could not have been better cared for — of that I am quite sure.” 

“lam glad to hear you say so; that is some comfort. But 
why did no one write to me when the doctor died?” 

“ I do not think he left one shred of paper containing any al- 
lusion to your lordship. All his effects were claimed by some 
distant cousin, who now lives in his house. I was asked to look 
over his papers, but there was not a private memorandum 
among them — not one; there was nothing in fact but receipted 
bills.” 

Lord Mountdean looked up. 

“There must be some mistake,” he observed. “I myself 
placed in his charge all the papers necessary for the identifica- 
tion of my little daughter.” 

“ May I ask of what they consisted?” said the rector. 

“ Certainly — the certificate of my marriage, of my beloved 
wife’s death, of my little daughter’s birth, and an agreement 
between the doctor and myself as to the sum that was to be paid 
to him yearly while he had charge of my child.” 

“Then the doctor knew your name, title, and address?” 

“Yes; I had no motive in keeping them secret, save that I 
did not wish my marriage to be known to my father until I my- 
self could tell him — and I know how fast such news travels. I 
remember distinctly where he placed the papers. I watched 
him.” 

“Where was it?” asked Mr. Darnley. “ For I certainly have 
seen nothing of them.” 

“In a small oaken box with brass clasps, which stood on a 
sideboard. I remember it as though it were yesterday.” 

“I have seen no such box,” said the rector. “Our wisest 
plan will be to go at once to the house where his cousin, Mr. 
Grey, resides, and see if the article is in his possession. I am 
quite sure, though, that he would have mentioned it if he had 
seen it.” 


38 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Without a minute’s delay they drove at once to the house, and 
fonnd Mr. Grey at home. He was surprised when he heard the 
name and rank of his visitor, and above all when he understood 
his en-and. 

“A small oaken box with brass clasps?” he said. “No; I 
have nothing of the kind in my possession; but, if your lord- 
ship will wait, I will have a search made at once.” 

Every drawer, desk, and recess were examined in vain. There 
was no trace of either the box or the papers. 

“ I have an inventory of everything the doctor’s house con- 
tained — it was taken the day after his death,” said Mr. Grey; 
“we can look through that.” 

Item after item was most carefully perused. The list con- 
tained no mention of a small oaken box. It was quite plain 
that box and papers had both disappeared. 

“Could the doctor have given them into Mrs. Dornham’s 
charge?” asked the earl. 

“No,” replied the rector — “ I should say certainly not. I am 
quite sure that Mrs. Dornham did not even know the child’s 
surname. I remember once asking her about it; she said it was 
a long name, and that she could never remember it. If she had 
had the papers, she would have read them. I cannot think she 
holds them.” 

Then they went to visit Mrs. Galbraith, the doctor’s house- 
keeper. She had a distinct recollection of the box — it used to 
stand on the sideboard, and a large -sized family Bible generally 
lay on the top of it. How long it had been out of sight when 
the doctor died she did not know, but she had never seen it 
since. Then they drove to the bank, thinking that, perhaps, for 
greater security, he might have deposited it there. No such 
thing had been heard of. Plainly enough, the papers had dis- 
appeared; both the earl and the rector were puzzled. 

“They can be of no possible use to any one but myself,” said 
Lord Mountdean. “Now that my poor father is dead and can- 
not be distressed about it, I shall tell the whole world — if it 
cares to listen — the story of my marriage. If I had wanted to 
keep that or the birth of my child a secret, I could have under- 
stood the papers being stolen by one wishing to trade with 
them. As it is, I cannot see that they are of the least use to any 
one except myself.” 

They gave up the search at last, and then Lord Mountdean 
devoted himself to the object — the finding of his child. 

In a few days the story of his marriage was told by every 
newspaper in the land; also the history of the strange disap- 
pearance of his child. Large rewards were offered to any one 
who could bring the least information. Not content with em- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


39 


ploying the best detective skill in England, he conducted the 
search himself. He worked unwearyingly. 

“A man, woman, and child could not possibly disappear from 
the face of the earth without leaving some trace behind,’* he 
would say. 

One little gleam of light came, which filled him with hope — 
they found tliat Margaret Dornham had sold all her furniture to 
a broker living at a town called Wrentford. She had sent for 
him herself, and had asked him to purchase it, saying that she, 
with her husband, was going to live at a distance, and that they 
did not care about taking it with them. He remembered hav- 
ing asked her where she was going, but she evaded any reply. 
He could tell no more. He showed what he had left of the fur- 
niture; and tears filled Lord Mountdean’s eyes as he saw among 
it a child’s crib. He liberally rewarded the man. and then set 
to work with renewed vigor to endeavor to find out Margaret 
Dornham’s destination. 

He went to the railway stations; and, though the only clew he 
succeeded in obtaining was a very faint one, he had some reason 
for believing that Margaret Dornham had gone to London. 

In that vast city he continued the search, until it really 
seemed that every inch of ground had been examined. It was 
all without result — Margaret Dornham and her little foster-child 
seemed to have vanished. 

“ What can be the woman’s motive?” the earl would cry, in 
despair. “Why has she taken the child? What does she in- 
tend to do with it?” 

It never occurred to him that her great, passionate love for 
the little one was the sole motive for the deed she had done. 

The papers were filled with appeals to Margaret Dornham to 
return to Castledene, or to give some intelligence of her foster- 
child. The events of the story were talked about everywhere; 
but, in spite of all that was done and said, Lord Mountdean’s 
heiress remained undiscovered. Months grew into years, and 
the same mystery prevailed. The earl was desperate at first — 
his anguish and sorrow were pitiful to witness; but after a time 
he grew passive in his despair. He never relaxed in his efforts. 
Every six months the advertisements with the offers of reward 
were renewed; every six months the story was retold in the 
papers. It had become one of the common topics of the day. 
People talked of the Earl of Mountdean’s daughter, of her 
strange disappearance, of the mysterious silence that had fallen 
over her. Then, as the years passed on, it was agreed that she 
would never be found, that she must be dead. The earl’s tru- 
est friends advised him to marry again. After years of bitter 
disappointment, of anguish and suspense, of unutterable sor- 


40 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


row and despair, he resigned himself to the entire loss of Mad- 
aline’s child. 

* * * * * * * * 

Nature had made Philippa L’Estrange beautiful, circumstan- 
ces had helped to make her proud. Her father, Lord L’Estrange, 
died when she was quite a child, leaving her an enormous for- 
tune that was quite under her own control. Her mother. Lady 
L’Estrange, had but one idea in life, and that was indulging her 
beautiful daughter in her every caprice. Proud, beautiful, and 
wealthy, when she most needed her mother’s care that mother 
died, leaving her sole mistress of herself. She was but seven- 
teen then, and was known as one of the wealthiest heiresses and 
loveliest girls of the day. Her first step was, in the opinion of 
the world, a wise one; she sent for a widowed cousin. Lady 
Peters, to live with her as chaperon. For the first year after her 
mother’s death she remained at Verdun Koyal, the family estate. 
After one year given to retirement, Philippa L’Estrange thought 
she had mourned for her mother after the most exemplary fash- 
ion. She was just nineteen when she took her place again in 
the great world, one of its brightest ornaments. 

An afternoon in London in May. The air was clear and fresh; 
there was in it a faint breath of the budding chestnuts, the haw- 
thorn and lilac; the sun shone clear and bright, yet not too 
warmly. 

On this afternoon Miss L’Estrange sat in the drawing-room of 
the magnificent family mansion in Hyde Park. The whole 
world could not have produced a more marvelous picture. The 
room itself was large, lofty, well proportioned, and superbly 
furnished; the hangings were of pale-rose silk and white lace; 
the pictures and statues were gems of art, a superb copy of the 
Venus of Milo gleaming white and shapely from between the 
folds of rose silk, also a marble Flora, whose basket w^as filled 
with purple heliotropes, and a Psyche that was in itself a dream 
of beauty; the vases were filled with fairest and most fragrant 
fl(»wers. Nothing that art, taste, or luxury could suggest was 
wanting — the eye reveled in beauty. Miss L’Estrange had re- 
furnished the room in accordance with her own ideas of the 
beautiful and artistic. 

The long windows were opened, and through them one saw 
the rippling of the rich green foliage in the park; the large iron 
balconies were filled with fiowers, fragrant mignonette, lemon- 
scented verbenas, purple heliotropes, all growing in rich profu- 
sion. The spray of the little scented fountain sparkled in the 
sun. Every one agreed that there was no other room in Lon- 
don like the grand drawing-rooin at Verdun House. 

There was something on that bright May afternoon more beau- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


41 


tiful even than the flowers, the fountains, the bright-plumaged 
birds in their handsome cages, the white statues, or the pict- 
ures; that was the mistress and queen of all this magnificence, 
Philippa L’Estrange. She was reclining on a couch that had 
been sent from Paris — a couch made of finest ebony, and cov- 
ered with pale, rose-colored velvet. If Titian or Velasquez had 
seen her as she lay there, the world would have been the richer 
by an immortal work of art; Titian alone could have reproduced 
those rich, marvelous colors; that perfect, queenly beauty. He 
■would have painted the picture, and the world would have raved 
about its beauty. The dark masses of waving hair; the lovely 
face with its warm Southern tints; the dark eyes lighted with 
fire and passion; the perfect mouth with its proud, sweet, im- 
perial, yet tender lips; the white, dimpled chin; the head and 
face unrivaled in their glorious contour; the straight, dark 
brows that could frown and yet soften as few other brows could; 
the white neck, half hidden, half revealed by the coquettish 
dress; the white rounded arms and beautiful hands — all would 
have struck the master. Her dress fell round her in folds that 
would have charmed an artist. It was of some rich, transparent 
material, the pale amber hue of which enhanced her dark love- 
liness. The white arms were half shown, half covered by rich 
lace — in the waves of her dark hair lay a yellow rose. She 
looked like a woman whose smile could be fatal and dangerous 
as that of a siren, who could be madly loved or madly hated, 
yet to whom no man living could be indifferent. 

She played for some few minutes with the rings on her fingers, 
smiling to herself a soft, dreamy smile, as though her thoughts 
were very pleasant ones; then she took up a volume of poems, 
read a few lines, and then laid the book down again. The dark 
eyes, with a gleam of impatience in them, wandered to the 
clock. 

“ How slowly those hands move!” she said. 

“You are restless,” observed a calm, low voice; “watching a 
clock always makes time seem long.” 

“Ah, Lady Peters,” said the rich, musical tones, “when I 
cease to be young, I shall ce^e to be impatient.” 

Lady Peters, the chosen confidante and chaperon of the bril- 
liant heiress, was an elderly lady whose most striking character- 
istic appeared to be calmness and repose. She was richly 
dressed in a robe of black moire^ and she wore a cap of point 
lace; her snowy hair was braided back from a broad white brow; 
her face was kindly, patient, cheeruul; her manner, though 
somewhat stately, the same. She evidently deeply loved the 
beautiful girl whose bright face was turned to hers. 

“ He said three in his note, did he not. Lady Peters?” 

“ Yes, my dear, but it is impossible for any one to bo always 


42 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

strictly punctual; a hundred different things may have detained 
him.” 

“But if he were really anxious to see me, he would not let 
anything detain him,” she said. 

“Your anxiety about him would be very flattering to him if 
he knew it,” remarked the elder lady. 

“Why should I not be anxious? I have always loved him 
better than the whole world. I have had reason to be anxious.” 

“Philippa, my dear Philippa, I would not say such things if 
I were you, unless I had heard something really definite from 
himself.” 

The beautiful young heiress laughed a bright, triumphant 
laugh. 

“ Something definite from himself ! Why, you do not think 
it likely that he will long remain indifferent to me, even if he be 
so now — which I do not believe.” 

“I have had so many disappointments in life that I am afraid 
of being sanguine,” said Lady Peters; and again the young 
beauty laughed. 

“ It will seem so strange to see him again. I remember his 
going away so well. I was very young then — I am young now, 
but I feel years older. He came down to Verdun Koyai to bid 
us good-by, and I was in the grounds. He had but half an hour 
to stay, and mamma sent him out to me.” 

The color deepened in her face as she spoke, and the light 
shone in her splendid eyes — there was a kind of wild, restless 
passion in her w’ords. 

“I remember it all so well! There had been a heavy shower 
of rain in the early morning, that had cleared away, leaving the 
skies blue, the sunshine golden, while the rain-drops still glis- 
tened on the trees and the grass. I love the sweet smell of the 
green leaves and the moist earth after rain. I was there enjoy- 
ing it when he came to say good-by to me — mamma came 'with 
him. ‘ Philippa,' she said, ‘Norman is going; he wants to say 
good-by to his little wife.’ He always calls me his little wife. I 
saw him look very grave. She went away and left us together. 

‘ You are growing too tall to be called my little wife, Philippa,’ 
he said, and I laughed at his gravity. We were standing under- 
neath a great flowering lilac-tree — the green leaves and the 
sweet flowers were still wet with the rain. I remember it so 
well! I drew one of the tall fragrant sprays down, and shaking 
the rain-drops from it, kissed it. I can smell the rich, moist 
odor now. I never see a lilac-spray or smell its sweet moisture 
after rain but that the whole scene rises before me again—I see 
the proud, handsome face that I love so dearly, the clear skies 
and the green trees. ‘ How long shall you be away, Norman?’ I 
asked him. ‘Not more than two years,’ he replied. ‘You will 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


43 


Le quite a brilliant lady of fashion when I return, Philippa; you 
will have made conquests innumerable.’ ‘ I shall always be the 
same to you,’ I replied; but he made no answer. He took the 
spray of lilac from my hands. ‘ My ideas of you will always be 
associated with lilacs,’ he said; and that is why, Lady Peters, I 
ordered the vases to be tilled with lilacs to-day. He bent down 
and kissed my face. ‘Good-by, Philippa,’ he said, ‘may I find 
you as good and as beautiful as I leave you.’ And then he went 
away. That is just two years ago; no wonder that I am pleased 
at his return.” 

Lady Peters looked anxiously at her. 

“There was no regular engagement between you and Lord 
Arleigh, was there, Philippa?” 

“What do you call a regular engagement?” said the young 
heiress. “He never made love to me, if that is what you mean 
— he never asked me to be his wife; but it was understood — al- 
ways understood.” 

“By whom?” asked Lady Peters. 

“ My mother and his. When Lady Arleigh lived, she spent a 
great deal of time at Verdun Boyal with my mother; they were 
first cousins, and the dearest of friends. Hundreds of times I 
have seen them sitting on the lawn, while Norman and I played 
together. Then they were always talking about the time when 
we should be married. ‘ Philippa will make a beautiful Lady 
Arleigh,’ his mother used to say. ‘Norman, go and play with 
your little wife,’ she would add; and with all the gravity of a 
grown courtier, he would bow before me and call me his little 
wife.” 

“ But you were children then, and it was perhaps all childish 
folly.” 

“It was nothing of the kind,” said the heiress, angrily. “ I 
remember well that, when I was presented, my mother said to 
me, ‘Philippa, you are sure to be very much admired; but re- 
member, I consider you engaged to Norman. Your lot in life is 
settled; you are to bo Lady Arleigh of Beech grove.’” 

“But,” interposed Lady Peters, “ it seems to me, Philippa, 
that this was all your mother’s fancy. Because you played to- 
gether as children — because, when you were a child, he called 
you his little wife — because your mother and his were dear 
friends, and liked the arrangement — it does not follow that he 
would like it, or that he would choose the playmate of his child- 
hood as the love of his manhood. In all that you have said to 
me, I see no evidence that he loves you, or that he considers 
himself in any way bound to you.” 

“ That is because you do not understand. He has been in 
England only two days, yet, you see, he comes to visit me.” 

“That may be for old friendship’s sake,” said Lady Peters. 


44 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“Oil, my darling, be careful! Do not give the love of your 
heart and soul for nothing.” 

“It is given already,” confessed the girl, “ and can never be 
recalled, no matter what I get in return. Why, it is twenty min- 
utes past three; do you think he will come?” 

Philippa L’Estrange rose from the couch and went to the long 
open window. 

“I have never seen the sun shine so brightly before,” she 
said; and Lady Peters sighed as she listened. “ The world has 
never looked so beautiful as it does to-day. Oh, Norman, make 
haste! I am longing to see you.” 

She had a quaint, pretty fashion of calling Lady Peters by 
the French appellation maman. She turned to her now, with a 
charming smile. She shook out the perfumed folds of her dress 
— she smoothed the fine white lace. 

“ You have not told me, maman'' she said, “whether I am 
looking my best to-day. I want Norman to be a little surprised 
when he sees me. If you saw me for the first time to-day, would 
you think me nice?” 

“I should think you the very queen of beauty,” was the 
truthful answer. 

A pleased smile curved the lovely, scarlet lips. 

“ So will Norman. You will see, maman, there is no cause 
for anxiety, none for fear. You will soon be wondering why 
you looked so grave over my pretty love story.” 

“ It seems to me,” observed Lady Peters, “that it is a one 
sided story. You love him — you consider yourself betrothed to 
him. What will you say or do, Philippa, if you find that, dur- 
ing his travels, he has learned to love some one else? He has 
visited half the courts of Europe since he left here; he must 
have seen some of the loveliest women in the world. Suppose 
he has learned to love one — what then?” 

The beautiful face darkened. 

“ What then, maman? I know what I should do, even in that 
case. He belonged to me before he belonged to any one else, 
and I should try to win him back again.” 

“ But if his word were pledged?” 

“He must break his pledge. It would be war to the knife; 
and I have an idea that in the end I should win.” 

“ But,” persisted Lady Peters, “ if you lost — what then?” 

“ Ah, then I could not tell what would happen! Love turns 
to burning hate at times. If I failed I should seek revenge. 
But we Will not talk of failure. Oh, maman, there he is.” 

How she loved him! At the sound of his footsteps a crimson 
glow shone in her face, a light shone in the depth of her splen- 
did dark eyes; the scarlet lips trembled. She clenched her 
fingers lest a sound that might betray her should escape her. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


45 


“Lord Arleigh,” announced a servant at the door. 

Tall, stately, self-possessed, she went forward to greet him. 
She held out her hand; but words failed her, as she looked 
once more into the face she loved so well. 

“Philippa!” cried the visitor, in tones of wonder. “I ex- 
pected to find you changed, but I should not have known you.” 

“Am I so greatly altered?” she asked. 

“Altered?” he repeated, “I left you a pretty school-girl — I 
find you a queen.” He bowed low over the white hand. 

“The queen bids you welcome,” she said, and then after in- 
troducing Lady Peters, she added: “ Should you not really have 
known me, Norman?” 

He had recovered from his first surprise, and Lady Peters, 
who watched him closely, fancied that she detected some little 
embarrassment in his manner. Of one thing she was quite sure 
— there was admiration and affection in his manner, but there 
was nothing resembling love. 

He greeted her, and then took a seat, not by Philipp'a’s side, 
but in one of the pretty lounging chairs by the open window. 

“How pleasant it is to be home again!” he said. “How 
pleasant, Philippa, to see you!” And then he began to talk of 
Lady L’Estrange. “ It seems strange,” he went on, “ that your 
mother and mine, after being such true friends in life, should 
die within a few days of each other. I would give the whole 
world to see my mother again. I shall find Beechgrove so lonely 
without her.” ^ 

“ I always recognize a good man,” put in Lady Peters, “ by 
the great love he bears his mother. ” 

Lord Arleigh smiled. 

“ Then you think I am a good man?” he interrogated. “I 
hoi^e. Lady Peters, that I shall never forfeit your good opinion.” 

“ I do not think it likely,” said her ladyship. 

Philippa grew impatient on finding his attention turned, even 
for a few moments, from herself. 

“Talk to me, Norman,” she said; “ tell me of your travels — 
of what you have seen and done — of the new friends you have 
made.” 

“I have made no new friends, Philippa,” he said; “I love 
the old ones best.” 

He did not understand the triumphant expression of the dark 
eyes as they glanced at Lady Peters. He told her briefly of the 
chief places that he had visited, and then he said: 

“ What a quantity of flowers you have, Philippa! You still 
retain your old love.” 

She took a spray of lilac from one of the vases and held it be- 
fore him. Again Lady Peters noted confusion on his face. 


46 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ Do you remember the lilac, and what you said about it?” 
she asked. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ I was in Florence last year when they 
were in flower, and I never looked at the beautiful blooming 
trees without fancying that I saw my cousin’s face among the 
blossoms.” 

“Why do you call me ‘cousin?’ ” she asked, impatiently. 

He looked up in surprise. 

“ You are my cousin, are you not, Philippa?” 

“I am only your second cousin,” she said; “and you have 
never called me so before.” 

“ I have always called you ‘ cousin * in my thoughts,” he de- 
clared. “How remiss I am!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “You 
will think that I have forgotten what little manners I had. I 
never congratulated you on your success.” 

“ What success?” she asked, half impatiently. 

“ I have not been twenty -four hours in London, yet I have 
heard on all sides of your charms and conquests. I hear that 
you are the belle of the season — that you have slain dukes, earls, 
marquises, and baronets indiscriminately. I hear that no one 
has ever been more popular or more admired that Philippa 
L’Estrange. Is it all true?” 

“You must find out for yourself,” she said, laughingly, half 
disappointed that he had laid the spray of lilac down without 
any further remark, half disappointed that he should speak in 
that light, unconcerned fashion about her conquests; he ought 
to be jealous, but evidently he was not. 

Then, to her delight, came a summons for Mrs. Peters; she 
was wanted in the housekeeper’s room. 

“Now we are alone,” thought Philippa, “he will tell me that 
he is pleased to see me. He will remember that he called me 
his little wife. ” 

But, as Lady Peters closed the door, he took a book from the 
table, and asked her what she had been reading lately — which 
was the book of that season. She replied to his questions, and 
to the remarks that followed; but they were not what she want- 
ed to hear. 

“ Do not talk to me about books, Norman,” she cried at last. 
“Tell me more about yourself; I want to hear more about 
you.” 

She did not notice the slight flush that spread over his face. 

“If we are to talk about ourselves,” he said, “ I should pre- 
fer you to be the subject. You have grown very beautiful, 
Philippa.” 

His eyes took in every detail of the rich amber costume — the 
waving mass of dark hair — the splendid face, with its scarlet 
lips and glorious eyes — the white hands that moved so inces- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


47 


santly. He owned to himself that in all his travels he had seen 
nothing like the imperial loveliness of this dark-eyed girl. 

“Does it please you to find me what you call beautiful?’* she 
asked, shyly. 

“ Of course it does. I am very proud of you — proud to be 
known as the cousin of Philippa L’Estrange.” 

Nothing more! Had he nothing more than this to be proud 
of? Was he so blind that he could not see love in the girl’s face 
— so deaf that he could not hear it in the modulations of her 
musical voice? She bent her beautiful face nearer him. 

“We were always good friends, Norman,” she said, simply, 
“you and I?” 

“ Yes, we were like brother and sister,” he responded. 
“How we quarreled and made friends! Do you remember?” 

“ Yes — but we were not like brother and sister, Norman. We 
did not call each other by such names in those days, did we?’^ 

“I never could find names pretty enough for you,” he re- 
plied, laughingly. 

She raised hSr eyes suddenly to his. 

■ “ You cared for me a great deal in those days, Norman,” she 
said, gently. “Tell me the truth — in your travels have you ever 
met- any one for whom you care more?” 

He was perfectly calm and unembarrassed. 

“No, cousin, I have not. As I told you before, I have really 
made no friends abroad for whom I care much — a few pleasant 
acquaintances, nothing more.” 

“ Then I am content,” she said. 

But he was deaf to the passionate music of her voice. Then 
the distance between them seemed to grow less. They talked 
of her home, Verdun Koyal; they talked of Beechgrove, and his 
plans for living there. Their conversation was the intimate ex- 
change of thought of old friends; but there was nothing of 
love. If she had expected that he would avail himself of Lady 
Peters’ absence to speak of it, she was mistaken. He talked of 
old times, of friendship, of childhood’s days, of great hopes 
and plans for the future — of anything but love. It seemed to 
be and perhaps was the farthest from his thoughts. . 

“I am going to Beechgrove in a week,” he said; “you will 
give me permission to call and see you every day, Philippa?” 

“ I shall be pleased to see you — my time is yours,” she an- 
swered; but he did not understand the full meaning of the 
words. 

Then Lady Peters came in and asked if he would join them 
at dinner. 

“Philippa likes gayety,” she said; “we have never had one 
quiet evening since the season began; she has a ball for to- 
night.” 


48 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ Yes,” laughed the heiress; “ the world is very sweet to me 
just now, Norman; but I wiU give up my ball and stay at home 
purposely to sing to you, if you will dine with us.” 

“That is a temptation I cannot resist,” he returned. “I will 
come. All your disappointed partners will, however, vent their 
wrath on me, Philippa.” 

“I can bear it,” she said; “and so can you. Now I can let 
you go more willingly, seeing that I shall soon see you again.” 

And then he went away. After he had gone she spoke but 
little; once she clasped her arms round Lady Peters’ neck and 
kissed the kindly face. 

“Do not speak to me,” she said, “ lest I should lose the echo 
of his voice;” and Lady Peters watched her anxiously, as she 
stood with a rapt smile on her face, as of one who has heard ce- 
lestial music in a dream. 

******** 

The Arleighs of Beechgrove had for many generations been 
one of the wealthiest as well as one of the noblbst families in 
England. To Norman, Lord Arleigh, who had succeeded his 
father at the early age of twenty, all this good gift of fame, for- 
tune, and wealth had now fallen. He had inherited also the far- 
famed Arleigh beauty. He had clear-cut features, a fair skin, a 
fine manly frame, a broad chest, and erect, military bearing; he 
had dark hair and eyes, with straight, clear brows, and a fine, 
handsome mouth, shaded by a dark mustache. Looking at him 
it was easy to understand his character. There was pride in 
the dark eyes, in the handsome face, in the high-bred manner 
and bearing, but not of a common kind. 

In accordance with his late father’s wish, he had gone through 
the usual course of studies. He had been to Eton and to Ox- 
ford; he had made the usual continental tour; and now he had 
returned to live as the Arleighs had done before him — a king on 
his own estate. There was just one thing in his life that had not 
pleased him. His mother. Lady Arleigh, had always evinced 
the greatest affection for her cousin, the gentle Lady L’Estrange. 
She had paid long visits to Verdun Eoyal, always taking her 
son with her; and his earliest recollection was of his mother and 
Lady L’Estrange sitting side by side planning the marriage of 
their two children, Philippa and Norman. He could even re- 
member many of his mother's pet phrases — “ So suitable,” “A 
perfect marriage,” “ The desire of my heart.” He could remem- 
ber the many references made to it, such as: “When Philippa 
lives at the Abbey,” “When Philippa is Lady Arleigh.” All his 
mother’s thoughts and ideas seemed to begin and end there. 
He had been taught, half seriously, half in jest, to call Philippa 
his little wife, to pay her every attention, to present her with 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


49 


jewels and with flowers, to make her his chief study. While 
he was still a boy he had only laughed at it. 

Philippa was a beautiful, high-sin’ited girl. Her vivacity and 
animation amused him. He had spoken the truth in saying that 
he had met no one he liked better than his old friend. He had 
seen beautiful girls, lovely women, but he had not fallen in love. 
Indeed, love with the Arleighs was a serious matter. They did 
not look lightly upon it. Norman, Lord Arleigh, had not fallen 
in love, but he had begun to think very seriously about Philippa 
L’Estrange. He had been fond of her as a child, with the kind 
of affection that often exists between children. He had called 
her his “little wife ” in jest, not in earnest. He had listened to 
the discussions between the two ladies as he would have listened 
had they been talking about adding a new wing to the house. 
It was not until he came to the years of manhood that he began 
to see how serious the whole matter was. Then he remembered 
with infinite satisfaction that there had been nothing binding, 
that he had never even mentioned the word “love ” to Philippa 
L’Estrange, that he had never made love to her, that the whole 
matter was merely a something that had arisen in the imagina- 
tion of two ladies. 

He was not in the least degree in love with Philippa. She 
was a brunette — he preferred a blonde; brunette beauty had no 
charm for him. He liked gentle, fair-haired women, tender of 
heart and soul — brilliancy did not charm him. Even when, pre- 
viously to going abroad, he had gone down to Verdun Boyal to 
say good-by, there was not the least approach to love in his 
heart. He had thought Philippa very charming and very pic- 
turesque as she stood under the lilac-trees; he had said truly 
that he should never see a lilac without thinking of her as she 
stood there. But that had not meant that he loved her. 

He had bent down, as he considered himself in courtesy bound, 
to kiss her face when he bade her adieu; but it was no lover’s 
kiss that fell so lightly on her lips. He realized to himself most 
fully the fact that, although he liked her, cared a great deal for 
her, and felt that she stood in the place of a sister to him, he 
did not love her. 

But about Philippa herself? He was not vain; the proud, 
stately Lord Arleigh knew nothing of vanity. He could not 
think that the childish folly had taken deep root in her heart — 
he would not believe it. She had been a child like himself; 
perhaps even she had forgotten the nonsense more completely 
than he himself had. On his return to England, the first thing 
he heard when he reached London was that his old friend and 
playfellow — the girl he had called his little wife — was the belle 
of the season, with half London at her feet. 


50 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


CHAPTEK VII. 

Lord Arleigli had been so accustomed to think of Philippa as 
a child that he could with difficulty imagine the fact that she 
was now a lovely girl, and one of the wealthiest heiresses in Lon- 
don. He felt some curiosity about her. How would she greet 
him? How would she receive him? He wrote to her at once, 
asking permission to visit her, and he came away from that visit 
with his eyes a little dazzled, his brain somewhat dazed, but his 
heart untouched. His fancy was somewhat disturbed by the 
haunting memory of dark, splendid eyes, lighted with fire and 
passion, and a bright, radiant face and scarlet lips— by a melange 
of amber, lace, and perfume — but his heart was untouched. She 
was beautiful beyond his fairest dreams of woman — he owned 
that to himself— but it was not the kind of beauty that he ad- 
mired; it was too vivid, too highly colored, too brilliant. He 
preferred the sweet, pure lily to the queenly rose. Still he said 
to himself that he had never seen a face or figure like Miss 
L’Estrange’s. No wonder that she had half London at her feet. 

He was pleased with her kind reception of him, although he 
had not read her welcome aright; he was too true a gentleman 
even to think that it was love which shone in her eyes and trem- 
bled on her lips— love which made her voice falter and die away 
— love which caused her to exert every art and grace of which 
she was mistress to fascinate him. He was delighted with her— 
his heart grew warm under the charm of her words, but he never 
dreamed of love. 

He had said to himself that there must be no renewal of his 
childish nonsense of early days— that he must be careful not to 
allude to it; to do so would be in bad taste— not that he was 
vain enough to think she would attach any importance to it, even 
if he did so; but he was one of nature’s gentlemen, and he would 
have scorned to exaggerate or to say one word more than he 
meant. Her welcome had been most graceful, most kind — the 
beautiful face had softened and changed completely for him. 
She had devoted herself entirely to him; nothing in all the wide 
world had seemed to her of the least interest except himself and 
his affairs — books, music, pictures, even herself, her own tri- 
umphs, were as nothing when compared with him. He would 
have been less than mortal not to have been both pleased and 
flattered. 

Pressed so earnestly to return to dinner, he had promised to 
do so; and evening, the sweet-scer ted May evening, found him 
once more at Hyde Park. If anything, Philippa looked more 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


51 


lovely. She wore lier favorite colors — amber and white — a dress 
of rich amber brocade, trimmed with white lace; the queenly- 
head was circled with diamonds; jewels like fire gleamed on the 
wliite breast; there was a cluster of choice flowers in her bodice. 
He had seen her hitherto as a girl; now h^ was to see her as the 
high-bred hostess, the mistress of a large and magnificent man- 
sion. 

He owned to himself that she was simply perfect. He had 
seen nothing in better taste, although he had been on intimate 
terms with the great ones of the earth. As he watched her, he 
thought to himself that, high and brilliant as was her station, it 
was not yet high enough for her. She flung a charm so magical 
around her that he was insensibly attracted by it, yet he was not 
the least in love — nothing was further from his thoughts. He 
could not help seeing that, after a fashion, she treated him dif- 
ferently from her other guests. He could not have told why or 
how; he felt only a certain subtle difference; her voice seemed 
to take another tone in addressing him, her face another expres- 
sion, as though she regarded him as one quite apart from all 
others. 

The dinner-party was a success, as was every kind of enter- 
tainment with Avhich Philippa L’Estrange was concerned. When 
the visitors rose to take their leave, Norman rose also. She was 
standing near him. 

“ Do not go yet, Norman,” she said; “ it is quite early. Stay, 
and I will sing to you.” 

She spoke in so low a tone of voice that no one else heard her. 
He was quite willing. Where could he feel more at home than 
in this charming drawing-room, with this beautiful girl, his old 
friend and playmate? 

She bade adieu to her visitors, and then turned to him with 
such a smile as might have lost or won Troy. 

“I thought they would never go,” she said; “and it seems to 
me that I have barely exchanged one word with you yet, Nor- 
man.” 

“We have talked many hours,” he returned, laughing. 

“Ah, you count time by the old fashion, hours and minutes! 
I forget it when I am talking to one I — to an old friend like 
you.” 

“You are enthusiastic,” said Lord Arleigh, wondering at the 
light on the splendid face. 

“ Nay, I am constant,” she rejoined. 

And for a few minutes after that silence reigned between 
them. Philippa was the first to break it. 

“Do you remember,” she asked, “ that you used to praise my 
voice, and prophesy that I should sing well?” 

“Yes, I remember,” he replied. 


52 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“I have worked hard at my music,’’ she continued, “in the 
hope of pleasing you.” 

“ In the hope of pleasing me?” he interrogated. “It was kind 
to think so much of me.” 

“ Of whom should I think, if not of you?” she inquired. 

There were both love and reproach in her voice — he heard 
neither. Had he been as vain as he was proud, he would have 
been quicker to detect her love for himself. 

The windows had been opened because the evening air was 
so clear and sweet;, it came in now, and seemed to give the flow- 
ers a sweeter fragrance. Lord Arleigli drew his chair to the 
piano. 

“I want you only to listen,” she said. “You will have no 
turning over to do for me; the songs I love best I know by 
heart. IShut your eyes, Norman, and dream.” 

“I shall dream more vividly if I keep them open and look at 
you,” he returned. 

Then in a few minutes he began to think he must be in dream- 
land — the rich, sweet voice, so clear, so soft, so low, was filling 
the room with sweetest music. It was like no human voice that 
he remembered; seductive, full of passion and tenderness — a 
voice that told its own story, that told of its owner’s power and 
charm — a voice that carried away the hearts of the listeners irre- 
sistibly, as the strong current carries the leaflet. 

She sang of love, mighty, irresistible love, the king before 
whom all bow down; and as she sang he looked at her. The 
soft, pearly light of the lamps fell on her glorious face, and 
seemed to render it more beautiful. He wondered what spell 
was fast falling over him, for he saw nothing but Philippa’s face, 
heard nothing but the music that seemed to steep his senses as 
in a dream. 

How fatally, wondrously lovely she was, this siren who sang to 
him of love, until every sense was full of silent ecstasy, until 
his face flushed, and his heart beat fast. Suddenly his eyes met 
hers; the scarlet lips trembled, the white fingers grew unsteady; 
her eyelids drooped, and the sweet music stopped. 

She tried to hide her confusion by smiling. 

“You should not look at me, Norman,” she said, “when I 
sing; it embarrasses me.” 

“You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Phi- 
lippa,” he rejoined. “ What was that last song?” 

“It is a new one,” she replied, “called ‘My Queen.’ ” 

“I should like to read the words,” said Lord Arleigh. 

In a few minutes she had found it for him, and they bent over 
the printed page together; her dark hair touched his cheek, the 
perfume from the white ]ilies she wore seemed to entrance him; 
he could not understand the spell that lay over him. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


53 


“ Is it not beautiful?” she said. 

“Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal 
this poet’s queen.” 

“You do not know — you cannot tell, Norman. I think any 
woman who loves, and loves truly, becomes a queen.” 

He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice — 
wondering at the expression on her beautiful face. 

“ You are incredulous,” she said; “but it is true. Love is 
woman’s dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes 
a queen; her heart and soul grow grander, the lig]^t of love 
crowns her. It is the real diadem of womanhood, Norman; she 
knows no other.” 

He drew back startled; her words seemed to rouse him into 
sudden consciousness. She was quick enough to see it, and, 
with the distrait manner of a true woman of the world, quickly 
changed the subject. She asked some trifling question about 
Beechgrove, and then said, suddenly: 

“I should like to see that flne old place of yours, Norman. I 
was only ten when mamma took me there the last time; that was 
rather too young to appreciate its treasures. I should like to 
see it again.” 

“I hope you will see it, Philippa; I have many curiosities to 
show you. I have sent home treasures from every great city I 
have visited.” 

She looked at him half wonderingly, half wistfully, but he 
said no more. Could it be that he had no thought of ever ask- 
ing her to be mistress and queen of this house of his? 

“You must have a party in the autumn,” she said. “ Lady 
Peters and I must be among your guests.” 

“ That will be an honor. I shall keep you to your word, 
Philippa.” And then he rose to go. 

The dark, wistful eyes followed him. She drew a little nearer 
to him as he held out his hand to say good -night. 

“You are quite sure, Norman, that you are pleased to see me 
again?” she interrogated, gently. 

“Pleased! Why, Philippa, of course I am. What a strange 
question!’' 

“Because,” she said, “there seems to be a cloud— ^ shadow — 
between us that I do not remember to have existed before.” 

“We are both older,” he explained, “and the familiarity of 
childhood cannot exist when childhood ceases to be.” 

“I would rather be a child forever than that you should 
change to me,” she said, quickly. 

“ I think,” he returned, gravely, “that the only change in me 
is that I admire you more than I have ever done.” 

And these words filled her with the keenest sense of rapture; 


54 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


yet they were but common -place enough, if she had only real- 
ized it. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Lord Arleigh raised his hat from his brow and stood for a few 
minutes bareheaded in the starlight. He felt like a man who 
had been in the stifling atmosphere of a conservatory; warmth 
and perfume had dazed him. How beautiful Philippa was — 
how bewildering! What a nameless wondrous charm there was 
about her! No wonder that half London was at her feet, and 
that her smiles were eagerly sought. He was not the least in 
love with her; admiration, homage, liking, but not love — any- 
thing but that — filled him; yet he dreamed of her, thought of 
her, compared her face with others that he had seen — all simply 
because her beauty had dazed him. 

“ I can believe now in the sirens of old,” he said to himself; 
“ they must have had just such dark, glowing eyes, such rich, 
sweet voices and beautiful faces. I should pity the man who 
hopelessly loved Philippa L'Estrange. And, if she ever loves 
any one, it will be easy for her to win; who could resist her?” 

How little he dreamed that the whole passionate love of her 
heart was given to himself — that to win from him one word of 
love, a single token of affection, she would have given all that 
she had in the world. 

On the day following he received a note; it said simply: 

“Deab Nokman: Can you join me in a ride? I have a new 
horse which they tell me is too spirited. I shall not be afraid 
to try it if you are with me. 

‘ ‘ Yours, Philippa. ” 

He could not refuse — indeed, he never thought of refusing — 
why should he? The beautiful girl who asked this kindness 
from him w'as his old friend and playfellow. He hastened to 
Verdun House and found Philippa waiting for him. 

“I knew you would come,” she said. “Lady Peters said 
you would be engaged. I thought differently.” 

“You did well to trust me,” he returned, laughingly; “it 
would require a very pressing engagement to keep me from the 
pleasure of attending you.” 

He had thought her perfect on the previous evening, iq the 
glitter of jewels and the gorgeous costume of amber and white; 
yet, if possible, she looked even better on this evening. Her 
riding-habit was neat and plain, fitting close to the perfect 
figure, showing every gracious line and curve. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


55 


Philippa Li’Estrange possessed that rare accomplishment 
among women, a graceful “seat’' on horseback. Lord Arleigh 
could not help noticing the admiring glances cast on her as they 
entered the park .together. He saw how completely she was 
queen of society. Unusual homage followed her. She was the 
observed of all ol)servers; all the men seemed to pause and look 
at her. Lord Arleigh heard repeatedly, as they rode along, the 
question, “Who is that beautiful girl?” Every one of note or 
distinction contrived to speak to her. The Prince of Auboine, 
at that time the most fUed guest in England, could hardly leave 
her. Yet, in the midst of all. Lord Arleigh saw that she turned 
to him as the sunflower to the sun. No matter with whom she 
was conversing, she never for one moment forgot him, never 
seemed inattentive, listened to him, smiled her brightest on him, 
while the May sun shone, and the white hawthorn flowers fell 
on the grass— -while the birds chirped merrily, and crowds of 
bright, happy people passed to and fro. 

“ How true she is to her old friends!” thought Lord Arleigh, 
when he saw that even a prince could not take her attention 
from him. 

So they rode on through the sunlit air — he fancy free, she 
loving him every moment with deeper, truer, warmer love. 

“I should be so glad, Norman,” she said to him, “if you 
would give me a few riding-lessons. 1 am sure I need them.” 

He looked at the graceful figure, at the little hands that held 
the reins so deftly, 

“I do not see what there is to teach you,” he observed; “I 
have never seen any one ride better.” 

“ Still I should be glad of some little instruction from you,” 
she said, “I always liked riding with you, Norman.-” 

“ 1 shall be only too pleased to ride with you every day when 
I am in town,” he told her; and, though he spoke kindly, with 
smiling lips, there was no warmth of love in his tone. 

The day was very warm — the sun had in it all the heat of June. 
When they reached Verdun House, Philippa said: 

“ You will come in for a short time, Norman? You look warm 
and tired. Williams — the butler — ^is famous for his claret-cup.” 

He murmured something about being not fatigued, but disin- 
clined for conversation. 

“ You will not see any one,” she said; “ you shall come to my 
own particular little room, where no one dares enter, and we 
will have a quiet conversation there.” 

It seemed quite useless to resist her. She had a true siren 
power of fascination. The next minute saw him seated in the 
cool, shady boudoii\ where the fnellow light came in, rose-fil- 
tered through the silken blinds, and the perfumed air was sweet. 
Lady Peters, full of solicitude, was there, with the iced claret- 


56 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


cup, thinking he was tired and warm. It was so like home that 
he could not help feeling happy. 

Presently Lady Peters retired for a few minutes, and in came 
Philippa. She had changed her riding-costume for a white silk 
neglige that fell round her in loose, graceful folds. She wore no 
flowers, jewels, or ribbons, but the dark masses of her hair w^ere 
unfastened, and hung round the white neck; there was a warm, 
bright flush on her face, with the least touch of languor in her 
manner. She threw herself back in her lounging chair, saying, 
with a dreamy smile: 

“You see that T make no stranger of you, Norman.” 

From beneath the white silken folds peeped a tiny embroidered 
slipper; a jeweled fan lay near her, and with it she gently stirred 
the perfumed air. He watched her with admiring eyes. 

“You look like a picture that I have seen, Philippa,” he said. 

“ What picture?” she asked, with a smile. 

“I cannot tell you, but I am quite sure I have seen one like 
you. What picture would you care to resemble?” 

A sudden gleam of light came into her dark eyes. 

“The one underneath which you would write ‘ My Queen,’ 
she said, hurriedly. 

He did not understand. 

“ I think every one with an eye to beauty would call you 
‘queen,’” he observed, lightly. The graver meaning of her 
speech had quite escaped him. 

Then Lady Peters returned, and the conversation changed. 

“We are going to hear an opera- to-night, ’’said Philippa, 
when Lord Arleigh was leaving. “ Will you come and be our 
escort?” 

“You will have a box filled with noisy chatterers the whole 
night,” he remarked, laughingly. 

“ They shall all make room for you, Norman, if you will 
come,” she said. “It is ‘La Grande Duchesse,’ with the far- 
famed Madame Schneider as her Grace of Gerolstein.” 

“I have not heard it yet,” returned Lord Arleigh. “I can- 
not say that I have any great admiration for that school of 
music, but, if you wish it, I will go, Philippa. 

“It will increase my enjoyment a hundredfold,” she said, 
gently, “if you go.” 

“ How can I refuse when you say that? I will be here punc- 
tually,” he promised; and again the thought crossed his mind 
how true she was to her old friends — how indifferent to new 
ones! 

On that evening Philippa changed her customery style of 
dress— it was no longer the favorite amber, so rich in hue and in 
texture, but white, gleaming silk, relieved by dashes of crimson. 
A more artistic or beautiful dress could not have been designed. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


57 


She wore crimson roses in her dark hair, and a cluster of crim- 
son roses on her white breast. Her bouquet was of the same 
ocforous flowers. 

lu the theater Lord Arleigh noticed that Philippa attracted 
more attention .than any one else, even though the house was 
crowded; he saw opera-glasses turned constantly toward her 
beautiful face. 

Miss L’Estrange kept her word, saying but little to those who 
would fain have engrossed her whole attention — that was given 
to Lord Arleigh. She watched his face keenly throughout the 
performance. He did not evince any great interest in it. 

“ You do not care for ‘ La Grande Duchesse?’ ” she said, sud- 
denly. 

“No — frankly, I do not,’^ he replied. 

“ Tell me why,” said Philippa. 

“ Can you ask me to do so, Philippa?” he returned, surprised; 
^pd then he added, “I will tell you. First of all, despite the 
taking music, it is a performance to which I should not care to 
bring my wife and sister.” 

“ Tell me why?” she said, again. 

“ It lowers my idea of womanhood. I could not forgive the 
woman, let her be duchess or peasant, who could show any man 
such great love, who could lay herself out so deliberately to 
win a man.” 

She looked at him gravely. He continued ; 

“Beauty is very charming, I grant — as are grace and talent; 
but the chief charm to me of a woman is her modesty, just as 
the great charm of a lily is its whiteness. Do you not agree 
with me, Philippa?” 

“ Yes,” she replied, “ most certainly I do; but, Norman, you 
are hard upon us. Suppose that woman loves a man ever so 
truly — she must not make any sign?” 

“Any sign she might make would most certainly, in my 
opinion, lessen her greatest charm,” he said. 

“ But,” she persisted, “do you not think that is rather hard? 
Why must a woman never evince a preference for the man she 
loves?” 

“ Woman should be wooed — never be wooer,” said Lord Ar- 
leigh. 

“Again I say you are hard, Norman. According to you, a 
woman is to break her heart in silence and sorrow for a man, 
rather than give him the least idea that she cares for him. ” 

“ I should say there is a happy medium between the Duchess 
of Gerolstein and a broken heart. Neither men nor women can 
help their peculiar disposition, but in my opinion a man never 
cares less for a woman than when he sees she wants to win his 
liking.” 


58 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He spoke with such perfect freedom from all consciousness 
that she knew the words could not be intended for her; never- 
theless she had learned a lesson from them. 

“lam like yourself, Norman,” she said; “Ido not care for 
the play at all; we will go home,” and they left the house before 
the Grand Duchess had played her part. 


CHAPTEK IX. 

Philippa L’Estrange thought long and earnestly over her last 
conversation with Lord Arleigh. She had always loved him; 
but the chances are that, if he had been devoted to her on his 
return, if he had wooed her as others did, she would have been 
less empressee. As it was, he was the only man she bad not con^r 
quered, the only one who resisted her, on whom her fascinations 
fell without producing a magical effect. She could not say she 
had conquered her world while he was unsubdued. Yet how 
was it? She asked herself that question a hundred times each 
day. She was no coquette, no flirt, yet she knew she had but to 
smile on a man to bring him at once to her feet; she had but to 
make the most trifling advance, and she could do what she 
would. The Duke of Mornton liad twice repeated his offer of 
marriage — she had refused him. The Marquis of Langland, the 
great match of the day, had made her an offer, which she had 
declined. The Italian Prince Cetti would have given his pos- 
sessions to take her back with him to his own sunny land, but 
she had refused to go. No woman in England had had better 
offers of marriage; but she had refused them all. How was it 
that, when others sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet. Lord 
Arleigh alone stood aloof ? 

Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, 
if she could not win him? For the first time she became soli- 
citous about her beauty, comparing it with that of other women, 
always being compelled, in the end, to own that she excelled. 
If Lord Arleigh talked, or danced, or showed attention to any 
lady, she would critically examine her claim to interest, whether 
she was beautiful, mentally gifted, graceful. But Philippa de- 
tected another thing — if Lord Arleigh did not love her, it was at 
least certain that he loved no one else. 

The whole world was spoiled for her because she had not this 
man’s love. She desired it. Her beauty, her wealth, her tal- 
ents, her grace, were all as nothing, because with them she 
could not win him. Then, again, she asked herself, could it be 
that she could not win him? What had men told her? That 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


59 


her beauty was irresistible. It might be that he did care for 
her, that he intended to carry out his mother’s favorite scheme, 
but that he was in no hurry, that he wanted her and himself to 
see plenty of life first. It was easier, after all, to believe that 
than to think that she had completely failed to win him. She 
would be quite satisfied if it were so, although it was certainly 
not flattering to her that he should be willing to wait so long; 
but, if he would only speak — if he would only say the few 
words that would set her mind quite at ease — she would be con- 
tent. 

Why did he not love her? She was fair, young, endowed with 
great gifts; she had wealth, position; she had the claim upon 
him that his mother and hers had wished the alliance. Why 
did she fail? why did he not love her? It seemed to her that 
she was the one person in all the world to whom he would nat- 
urally turn — that, above all others, he would select her for his 
wife; yet he did not evince the least idea of so doing. Why 
was it? 

Twice that night when he had so frankly told her his ideas 
about women, she had been most careful, most reserved. 

“If he likes reserve and indifference,” she said to herself, 
“he shall have plenty of it.” Yet it was at the same time so 
mixed with kindness, with thoughtful consideration for him, 
that the wonder was he did not succumb. “I must find out,” 
she said to herself, “ whether he does really care for me.” How 
to do so she did not quite know — but woman’s wits are proverb- 
ially keen. 

The more she saw of him the better she liked him — his single- 
mindedness, his chivalry, his faith in women and his respect for 
them, were greater than she had seen in any other, and she loved 
him for these qualities. The more she contrasted him with 
others, the greater, deeper, and wider grew her love. It must 
be that in time he should care for her. 

The Duchess of Aytoun gave a grand ball, to which, as belle 
of the season, Philippa was invited. 

“ Shall you go?” she asked of Lord Arleigh. 

“ I have hardly decided,” he replied. 

“ Do go, Norman; I like waltzing, but I do not care to waltz 
with every one. Do go, that I may dance with you.” 

“You do not mind waltzing with me, then?” he said. 

The glance she gave him was answer sufficient. He could not 
help feeling flattered. 

“I shall be there, Philippa,” he said; and then she promised 
herself on that ev^ening she would try to discover what his senti- 
ments were with regard to her. 

She took great pains with her toilet; she did not wish to star- 
tle, but to attract— and the two things were very different. Her 


60 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


dress looked brilliant, being of a silvery texture; the trimming 
was composed of small fern -leaves; a parure of fine diamonds 
crowned her head. 

The effect of the dress was striking, and Philippa herself had 
never looked more lovely. There was a flush of rose-color on 
her face, a light in her eyes. If ever woman’s face told a story, 
hers did — if ever love softened, made more tender and pure any 
face on earth, it was hers. 

After her toilet was complete, she stood for a few minutes 
looking in her mirror. The tall, stately figure in the glorious 
dress was perfect; the face, framed in shining masses of dark 
hair, was perfect too. 

“ If I can but win one word from him!” she thought. “If I 
can but remind him of those childish days when he used to call 
me his little wife!” 

She no sooner made her appearance than, as was usual, she 
was surrounded by a little court of admirers — the Duke of 
Mornton first among them. They little guessed that they owed 
her complacent reception of their compliments to the fact that 
she was not even attending to them, but with her whole soul in 
her eyes was watching for Lord Arleigh’s arrival. The duke 
even flattered himself that he was making some progress, be- 
cause at some chance word from him the beautiful face flushed 
a deep crimson. How was he to know that Lord Arleigh had at 
that moment entered the room? 

The latter could not help feeling pleased and flattered at the 
way in which Philippa received him. He was but mortal, and 
he could not help seeing the dark eyes shine, the scarlet lips 
tremble, the whole face soften. Presently she placed her hand 
on his arm, and walked away with him. 

“I was growing impatient, Norman,” she said; and then, re- 
membering his criticisms on the wooing of women, she hastened 
to add — “impatient at the want of novelty; it seems to me that 
in London ball-rooms all the men talk in the same fashion.” 

Lord Arleigh laughed. 

“What are they to do, Philippa?” he asked. “They have 
each one the same duties to perform — to please their partners 
and amuse themselves. You would not have a ‘hapless lord- 
ling ’ talk about science or metaphysics while he danced, would 
you?” 

“No; but they might find some intelligent remarks to make. 
You talk well, Norman, and listening to you makes me impa- 
tient with others.” 

“ You are very kind,” he said, and he took the pretty tablets 
from her hand. 

“ You have saved every waltz for me, Philippa. I shall ex- 
pect to have a dozen duels on my hands before morning.” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


61 


“This is my favorite,” she said, as the music of the irresisti- 
ble “Blue Danube” filled the room. 

Then it seemed to her that they floated away into another 
sphere. His arm was round her, his eyes smiling down into 
hers. With youth, music, beauty, love, there was nothing want- 
ing to complete the charm. 

When it was over, he asked her if she would rest. 

“No,” said Philippa; “I heard the playing of a fountain in 
the fernery. I should like to go there. ” 

They went through the magnificent suite of rooms, and then 
through the conservatory into the dim, beautiful fernery, where 
the lamps plowed like stars, and the cool rippling water fell with 
a musical rhythm into the deep basin below. They could hear 
the distant sound of music from the ball-room. It was a time 
when love, if it lay in a man’s heart, would spring into sweet, 
sudden life. 

“If he loves me,” she said to herself, “he will tell me so 
now.” 

“I like this better than the ball-room,” she said. “By the 
way, you have not told me if you like my dress?” she added, 
anxious to bring him to the one subject she had at heart. “Do 
you remember that when we were children, Norman, you used 
to criticise my dress?” 

“Did I? It was very rude of me. I should not venture to 
criticise anything so marvelous now. It is a wonderful dress, 
Philippa; in the light it looks like moonbeams, in the shade 
like snow. Do you suppose I should ever have the courage to 
criticise anything so beautiful?” 

“Do you really like it, Norman — without flattery?” 

“I never flatter, Philippa, not even in jest; you should know 
that.” 

“I never heard you flatter,” she acknowledged. “I took 
pains with my toilet, Norman, to please you; if it does so I am 
well content.” 

“There is another waltz,” said Lord Arleigh; “we will go 
back to the ball-room.” 

“Make him love me!” she said to herself, in bitter disdain. 
“ I might as well wish for one of the stars as for his love — it 
seems just as far off.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Lord Arleigh did not go to Beechgrove as he had intended. 
He found so many old friends and so many engagements in 
London that he was not inclined to leave it. Then, too, he be- 
gan to notice many little things which made him feel uncom- 


02 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


fortable. He began to perceive that people considered him in 
some kind of way as bolonging to Miss L’Estrange; no matter 
bow many surrounded her, when he entered a room they were 
seen one by one to disappear until he was left alone by her side. 
At first he believed this to be accidental; after a time he knew 
that it must be purposely done. 

Miss L’Estrange, too, appeared to see and hear him only. If 
any one wanted to win a smile from her lovely lips, he had but 
to make way for Lord Arleigh; if any man wanted a kind word, 
or a kind glance from the beautiful eyes, he had but to praise 
Lord Arleigh. People soon perceived all this. The last to dis- 
cover it was Lord Arleigh himself. It dawned but slowly upon 
him. He began to perceive also that Philippa, after a fashion 
of her own, appropriated him. She looked upon it as a settled 
arrangement that he should ride with her every day — that every 
day he must either lunch or dine with them — that he must be 
her escort to theater and ball. If he at times pleaded other en- 
gagements, she would look at him with an air of childish won- 
der, and say : 

‘‘ They cannot have so great a claim upon you as I have, Nor- 
man?” 

Then he was disconcerted, and knew not what to answer; it 
was true that there was no one with so great a claim — it seemed 
to have been handed down from his mother to him. 

His eyes were still further opened one day when a large and 
fashionable crowd had gathered at Lady Dalton’s garden-party. 
Philippa was, as heretofore, the belle, looking more than usu- 
ally lovely in a light gossamer dress of white and pink. She 
was surrounded by admirers. Lord Arleigh stood with a group 
of gentlemen under a great spreading beech-tree. 

“ How beautiful she is, that Miss L’Estrange!” said one — Sir 
Alfred Martindale. “I can believe in the siege of Troy when I 
look at her; and I think it just as well for mankind that such 
women are rare.” 

“If ever there was a human moth,” observed another, “it 
is that unfortunate Duke of Mornton. I have seen some des- 
perate cases in my time, but none so desperate as his.” 

Lord Arleigh laughed. They were all intimate friends. 

“ The Duke of Mornton is a great friend of mine,” he said. 
“I can only hope that he may be saved from the ultimate fate 
of a moth, and that Miss L’Estrange will take pity on him.” 

He could not help seeing that the three gentleman looked up 
with an expression of utter wonder. 

“Do you mean,” asked Sir Alfred, “that you hope Miss 
L’Estrange will marry the dnke?” 

“I do not think she could do better,” replied Lord Arleigh. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


63 


“You are the last man in London I should have expected to 
hear saj so,” said Sir Alfred, quietly. 

“ Am I? Pray may I ask why?” 

“ Yes, if you acquit me of all intention of rudeness in my re- 
ply. I repeat that you are the last man in London whom I 
should have expected to hear make such a remark, for the 
simple reason that every one believes you are going to marry 
Miss L’Estrange yourself. ” 

Lord Arleigh’s face flushed hotly. 

“Then ‘every one,’ as you put it, Sir Alfred, takes a great 
liberty — an unauthorized liberty — with the name of a very 
charming lady. Miss L’Estrange and myself were much to- 
gether when children — our mothers were distantly related — 
and at the present time we are — excellent friends.” 

“ I am sorry,” returned Sir Alfred, “ if I have said anything 
to annoy you. I thought the fact was as evident as the sun at 
noon-day; every one in London believes it.” 

“Then people take an unwarrantable liberty with the lady’s 
name,” said Lord Arleigh. 

Some one else remarked, with a slightly impertinent drawl, 
that he did not believe Miss L’Estrange would consider it a 
liberty. A flash from Lord Arleigh’s dark eyes silenced him. 

A few minutes afterward Lord Arleigh found the Puchess of 
Aytoun and Philippa seated underneath a large acacia-tree. Cap- 
tain Gresham, a great favorite in the London world, was by 
Philippa’s side. The duchess, with a charming gesture of in- 
vitation, made room for Lord Arleigh by her side. The gallant 
captain did not often find an opportunity of making love to the 
belle of the season. Now that he had found it, he was deter- 
mined not to lose it — not for fifty Lord Arleighs. So, while the 
duehess talked to the new-comer, he relentlessly pursued his 
conversation with Miss L’Estrange. 

There was but one music in the world for her, and that was 
the music of Lord Arleigh’s voice. Nothing could ever drown 
that for her. The band was playing, the captain talking, the 
duchess conversing, in her gay, animated fashion; but above 
all, clearly and distinctly, Philippa heard every word that fell 
from Lord Arleigh’s lips, although he did not know it. He be- 
lieved that she was, as she seemed to be, listening to the cap- 
tain. 

“ I have pleasing news concerning you, Lord Arleigh,” said 
the duchess. “ I wonder if I may congratulate you?” 

“What is it? I do not know of anything very interesting 
concerning myself,” he remarked — “nothing, I am sure, that 
calls for congratulation.” 

“You are modest,” said the duchess; “but I have certainly 


64 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


heard, and on good authority, too, that you are about to be mar- 
ried.” 

“I can only say I was not in the least aware of it,” he re- 
joined. 

The duchess raised her parasol and looked keenly at him. 

“Pray pardon me,” she continued; “ do not think that it is 
from mere curiosity that I ask the question. Is there really no 
truth in the report?” 

“ None whatever,” he replied. “I have no more idea of be- 
ing married than I have of sailing this moment for the Cape. ” 

“It is strange,” said the duchess, musingly; “I had the in- 
formation from such good authority, too.” 

“There can be no better authority on the subject,” said Lord 
Arleigh, laughingly, “than myself.” 

“ You; I admit that. Well, as the ice is broken. Lord Arleigh, 
and we are old friends, I may ask, why do you not marry?” 

“ Simply because of marriage, and of love that ends in mar- 
riage, I have not thought,” he answered lightly. 

“ It is time for you to begin,” observed the duchess; “my 
own impression is that a man does no good in the world until 
he is married.” And then she added: “I suppose you have an 
ideal of womanhood?” 

Lord Arleigh ’s face flushed. 

“Yes,” he acknowledged, “I have an ideal of my own, de- 
rived from poetry I have read, from pictures I have seen — an 
ideal of perfect grace, loveliness, and purity. When I meet that 
ideal, I shall meet my fate.” 

“ Then you have never yet seen the woman you would like to 
marry?” pursued the duchess. 

“ No,” he answered, quite seriously; “ strange to say, although 
I have seen so^^e of the fairest and noblest types of womanhood, 
I have not yet met with my ideal.” 

They were disturbed by a sudden movement —the flowers that 
Philippa held in her hand had fallen to the ground. 


CHAPTEE XL 

Captain Greshan sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss 
L’Estrange had dropped. 

“ Nay,” she said, “never mind them. A fresh flower is very 
nice. A flower that has once been in the dust has lost its 
beauty.” 

There was no trace of pain in the clear voice; it was rich and 
musical. Philippa L’Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


65 


heard the words that were to her a death-warrant, yet made no 
sign. “ I have not yet met with my ideal,” Lord Arleigh had 
said. 

Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers. 

“A dead flower from your hand, Miss L’Estrange,” he ob- 
served, “ is worth a whole gardenful of living ones from any one 
else.” 

She laughed again that sweet musical* laugh which seemed to 
come only from a happy heart; and then she looked round. 
The Duchess of Aytoun and Lord Arleigh were still in deep con- 
verse. Miss L’Estrange turned to Captain Gresham. 

“I have been told, ”*she said, “ that there are some beautiful 
white hyacinths here; they are my favorite flowers. Shall we 
find them?” 

He was only too pleased. She bade a laughing adieu to the 
duchess, and smiled at Lord Arleigh. There was no trace of 
pain or of sadness in her voice or face. They went away to- 
gether, and Lord Arleigh never even dreamed that she had heard 
his remark. 

Then the dnchess left him, and he sat under the spreading 
beech alone. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest nature; 
he did not like the general belief in his approaching marriage; 
it was fair neither to himself nor to Philippa — yet how was ho 
to put an end to such gossi})? Another idea occurred to him. 
Could it be possible that Philippa herself shared the idea? Ho 
would not believe it. Yet many things made him pause and 
think. She certainly evinced great preference for his society; 
she was never so happy as when with him. She would give 
up any engagement, any promised gayety or pleasure to be with 
him. She dressed to please him; she consulted him on most 
things; she seemed to identify her interests with his. But all 
this might be the result of their old friendship — it might have 
nothing to do with love. 

Could it be possible that she still remembered the childish 
nonsense that had passed between them — that she considered 
either herself or him bound by a foolish tie that neither of them 
had contracted? Could it be possible that she regarded herself 
as engaged to him? The bare idea of it seemed absurd to him; 
he could not believe it. Yet many little things that he could 
not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable and anxious. 
Could it be that she, the most beautiful and certainly the 
most popular woman in London, cared so much for him as to 
hold him by so slender a tie as their past childish nonsense? 

He reproached himself for the thought, yet, do what he 
would, he could not drive it away. The suspicion haunted 
him; it made him miserable. If it was really so, what was he to 
do? 


66 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could not go to this 
fair woman and ask her if it was really true that she loved him, if 
she really cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted in 
childhood. He could not do it. He had not sufficient vanity. 
Why should he think that Philippa, who had some of the 
noblest men in England at her feet — why should he think that 
she would renounce all her brilliant prospects for him? Yet, if 
the mistake had really occurred — if she really thought the child- 
ish nonsense binding — if she really believed that he was about 
to make her his wife — it was high time that she was undeceived, 
that she knew the truth. And the truth was that although he 
had a great liking, a kindly affection for her, ho was not in love 
with her. He admired her beauty — nay, he went further; he 
thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the 
most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not in love with 
her —never would be. She was not his type of woman, not his 
ideaL If she had been his sister, he would have loved her ex- 
ceedingly — a brotherly affection was what be felt for her. 

Yet how could he go to this fair woman with the ungracious 
words that he did not love her, and had no thought of marrying 
her? His face flushed hotly at the thought — there was some- 
thing in it against which his whole manhood rose in hot rebel- 
lion, Still it must be done; there must be no such shadow be- 
tween them as this — there must be no such fatal mistake. If 
the report of their approaching marriage were allowed to remain 
much longer uncontradicted, why, then he would be in honor 
compelled to fulfill public expectations; and this he had no ir.- 
tention, no desire to do. The only thing therefore was to speak 
plainly to her. 

How he hated the thought! How he loathed the idea! It 
seemed to him unmanly, most ignoble — and yet there was no 
help for it. There was one gleam of comforb for him, and only 
one. She was so quick, so keen, that she would be sure to un- 
derstand him at once, without his entering into any long ex- 
planation. Few words would suffice, and those words he must 
choose as best he could. If it were possible, he would speak to 
her to-day — the sooner the better - and then all uncertainty 
would be ended. It seemed to him, as he pondered these 
things, that a cloud had fallen over the sunshine. In his heart 
he blamed the folly of that gentle mother who had been the 
cause of all this anxiety. 

“ Such matters are always best left alone,” he said to himself. 
“ If I should ever have children of my own, I will never inter- 
fere in their love affairs. ” 

Think as he would, ponder as he would, it was no easy task 
that lay before him — to tell her in so many words that he did 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


67 


not love her. Surely no man had ever bad anything so ungrac- 
ious to do before. 

He looked round the grounds, and presently saw her the cen- 
ter of a brilliant group near the lake. The Duke of Ashwood 
was by her side, the elite of the guests had gathered round her. 
She — beautiful, bright, animated — was talking, as he could see, 
with her usual grace and ease. It struck iiim suddenly as absurd 
that this beautiful woman should care — as people said she did 
care — for him. 

Let him get it all over. He longed to see the bright face 
shine on him with sisterly kindness, and to feel liimself at ease 
with her; he longed to have all -misunderstanding done away 
with. 

He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity 
struck him — they all made way for him — even the Duke of Ash- 
wood, although he did it with a frown on his face and an angry 
look in his eyes. Each one seemed to consider that he had some 
special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss L’Estrange; 
and she, as usual when he was present, saw and heard no one 
else. 

It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself 
join in the popular belief? He could not tell. He looked at 
the bright face; the dark eyes met his, but he read no secret in 
them. 

“Philippa,’’ he said, suddenly, “the water looks very tempt- 
ing — would you like a row?” 

“Above everything else,” she replied. And they went off in 
the little pleasure-boat together. 

It was a miniature lake, tall trees bordering it and dipping 
their green branches into the water. The s-un shone on the 
feathered spray that fell from the sculls, the white swans raised 
their graceKil heads as the little boat passed by, and Philippa 
lay back languidly, watching the shadow of the trees. Sud- 
denly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked at Lord 
Ariel gh. 

“Norman,” she said, “let the boat drift — I want to talk to 
you, and I cannot while you are rowing.” 

He rested on his sculls, and the boat drifted under the droop- 
ing branches of a willow^iree. He never forgot the picture that 
then presented itself— the clear deep water, the green trees, and 
the beautiful face looking at him. 

“Norman,” she said, in a clear, low voice, “I want to tell 
you that I overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun. 
I could not help it — I was so near to you.” 

She was taking the difficulty into her own hands! He felt 
most thankful. 


C8 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“Did yon, Pbilii^pa? I thought you were engrossed with the 
gallant cajjtain.” 

“Did you really and in all truth mean what you said to her?” 
she asked. 

“ Certainly; you know me well enough to be quite sure that I 
never say what I do not mean.” 

“You have never yet seen the woman whom you would ask to 
be your wife?” she said. 

There w'as a brief silence, and then he replied: 

“No, in all truth, I have not, Philippa.” 

A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just above them 
— to the last day of her life it seemed to her that she remem- 
bered the notes. The sultry silence seemed to deepen. She 
broke it. 

“But, Norman,” she said, in a low voice, “have you not seen 
me?” 

He tried to laugh to hide his embarrassment, but it was a 
failure. 

“ I have seen you — and I admire you. I have all the affec- 
tion of a brother for you, Philippa ” and then he paused ab- 

ruptly. 

“But,” she supplied, “you have never thought of making me 
your wife? Speak to me quite frankly, Norman.” 

“No, Philippa, I have not.” 

“As matters stand between us, they require explanation,” she 
said; and he saw her lips grow pale. “It is not pleasant for 
me to have to mention it, but I must do it. Norman, do you 
quite forget what we were taught to believe when we were chil- 
dren — that our lives were to be passed together?” 

“My dearest Philippa, pray spare yourself and me. I did 
not know that you even remembered that childish nonsense.” 

She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something 
in them before which he shrank as one who feels pain. 

“One word, Norman — only one word. That past which' has 
been so much to me — that past in w'hich I have lived, even more 
than in the present or the future — am I to look upon it as what 
you call nonsense?” 

He took her hand in his. 

“ My dear Philippa,” he said, “ I hate myself for what I have 
to say — it makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. 
Yet you are right — there is nothing for us but perfect frankness; 
anything else would be foolish. Neither your mother nor mine 
had any right to try to bind us. Such things never answer, 
never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they, usually so 
sensible, came in this instance to disregard all dictates of com- 
mon sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


69 


mere nonsense; and I hope you have done the same. You are 
free as air — and so am I.” 

She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had 
regained her self-possession, she said: 

“The sun is warm on the water — I think we had better re- 
turn;” and, as they went back, she spoke to him carelessly 
about the new rage for garden-parties. 

“Does she care or not?” thought Lord Arleigh to himself. 
“Is she pleased or not? I cannot tell; the ways of women are 
inscrutable. Yet a strange idea haunts me — an uncomfortable 
suspicion.” 

As he watched her, there seemed to him no trace of anything 
but light-hearted mirth and happiness about her. She laughed 
and talked; she was the center of attraction, the life of the fete. 
When he spoke to her, she had a careless jest, a laughing word 
for him; yet he could not divest himself of the idea that there 
was something behind all this. Was it his fancy, or did the 
dark eyes wear every now and then an expression of anguish? 
Was it his fancy, or did it really happen that when she believed 
herself unobserved, the light died out of her face? 

He was uncomfortable, without knowing why — haunted by a 
vague, miserable suspicion he could not explain, by a presenti- 
ment he could not understand — compelled against his will to 
watch her, yet unable to detect anything in her words and man- 
ner that justified his doing so. It had been arranged that after 
the fete he should return to Verdun House with Lady Peters ^nd 
Philippa. He had half promised to dine and spend the evening 
there, but now he wondered if that arrangement would be agree- 
able to Philippa. He felt that some degree of restraint had 
arisen between them. 

He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa 
sent for him. He looked into the fresh young face; there was 
no cloud on it. ' 

“ Norman,” she said, “ I find that Lady Peters has asked Miss 
Byrton to join us at dinner — will you come now? It has been a 
charming day, but I must own that the warmth of the sun has 
tired me.” 

Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have 
laughed at himself for his suspicions, his fears. 

“I am quite ready,” he replied. “If you would like the car- 
riage ordered, we will go at once.” 

He noticed her going home more particularly than he had ever 
done before. She was a trifle paler, and there was a languid ex- 
pression in her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but 
she talked lightly as usual. If anything, she was even kinder 
to him than usual, never evincing the least consciousness of 


70 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


what had happened. Could it have been a dream? Never was 
man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh. 

They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss 
Byrton intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor Square. 
She was one of those who believed implicitly in the engage- 
ment between Lord Arleigh and Miss L’Estrange. 

“I have a Waverley quadrille already formed,” said Miss Byr- 
ton — “that is de rigueur. There could not be a fancy ball with- 
out a Waverley quadrille. Bow I should like two Shakesperian 
ones! I thought of having one from ‘As You Like It’ and an- 
other from ‘Romeo and Juliet;’ and, Miss L’Estrange, I wish 
you would come as Juliet. It seems rude even to suggest a char- 
acter to any one with such perfect taste as yours — still I should 
like a beautiful Juliet — Juliet in white satin, and glimmer of 
pearls. ” 

“I am quite willing,” returned Philippa. Juliet one of 
my favorite heroines. How many Romeos will you have?” 

“ Only one, if I can so manage it,” replied Miss Byrton — “ and 
that will be Lord Arleigh.” 

She looked at him as she spoke; he shook his head, laugh- 
ingly. 

“No — I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the 
great poet,” he said; “ but, to tell the truth, I do not remember 
that the character of Romeo ever had any great charm for me.” 

“ W^hy not?” asked Miss Byrton. 

“I cannot tell you: I am very much afraid that I prefer Othello 
— the noble Moor. Perhaps it is because sentiment has not any 
great attraction for me. I do not think I could ever kill myself 
for love. I should make a sorry Romeo, Miss Byrton.” 

With a puzzled face she looked from liim to Miss L’Estrange. 

“You surprise me,” she said, quickly. “I should have 
thought Romeo a character above all others to please you.” 

Philippa has listened with a smile — nothing had escaped her. 
Looking up, she said,. with a bright laugh: 

“I cannot compliment you on being a good judge of charac- 
ter, Miss Byrton. It may be perhaps that you have not known 
Lord Arleigh well enough. But he is the last person in the 
world to make a good Romeo. I know but one character in 
Shakespeare’s plays that would suit him.” 

“And that?” interrogated Lord Arleigh*. 

“That,” replied Philippa, “is Petruchio and amidst a gen- 
eral laugh the conversation ended. 

Miss Byrton was the first to take her departure. Lord Arleigh 
lingered for some little time — he w^as still unconvinced. The 
wu’etched, half-formed suspicion that there was something hid- 
den beneath Philippa’s manner still pursued him; he wanted to 
see if she was the same to him. There was indeed no percepti- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


71 


ble difference. She leaned back in her favorite chair with an 
air of relief, as though she were tired of visitors. 

“Now let us talk about i\\e fete, Norman,” she said. “You 
are the only one I care to talk with about my neighbors.” 

So for half an hour they discussed the fete, the dresses, the 
music, the different flirtations — Philippa in her usual bright, 
laughing, half-sarcastic fashion, with the keen sense of humor 
that was peculiar to her. Lord Arleigh could not see that there 
was any effort in her conversation; he could not see the least 
shadow on her brightness; and at heart he was thankful. 

When he was going away, she asked him about riding on the 
morrow just as usual. He could not see the slightest difference 
in her manner. That unpleasant little conversation on the lake 
might never have taken place for all the remembrance of it that 
seemed to trouble her. Then, when he rose to take his leave, 
she held out her hand with a bright, amused expression. 

“Good-night, Petruchio,'' said. “I am pleased at the 
name I have found for you.” 

“I am not so sure that it is appropriate,” he rejoined. “I 
think on the whole I would rather love a Juliet than tame a 
shrew.” 

“It may be in the book of fate that you will do both,” she 
observed; and they parted, laughing at the idea. 

To the last the light shone in her eyes, and the scarlet lips 
were wreathed in smiles; but, when the door had closed behind 
him and she was alone, the haggard, terrible change that fell 
over the young face was painful to see. The light, the youth, 
the beauty seemed all to fade from it; it grew white, stricken, 
as though the pain of death were upon her. She clasped her 
hands as one who had lost all hope. 

“How am I to bear it?” she cried. “ What am I to do?” 
She looked round her with the bewildered air of one who had 
lost her way — with the dazed appearance of one from beneath 
whose feet the plank of safety had been withdrawn. It was all 
over — life was all over; the love that had been her life was sud- 
denly taken from her. Hope was dead — the past in which she 
had lived was all a plank — he did not love her. 

She said the words over and oyer again to herself. He did 
not love her, this man to whom she had given the passionate 
love of her whole heart and soul — he did not love her, and never 
intended to ask her to be his wife. 

Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins 
around her, had been her existence. Standing there, in the 
first full pain of her despair, she realized what that love had 
been — her life, her hope, her world. She had lived in it; slie 
had known no other wish, no other desire. It had been her all 
and now it was less than nothing. 


72 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ How am I to live and bear it?” she asked herself again; and 
the only answer that came to her was the dull echo of her own 
despair. 

That night, while the sweet flowers slept under the light of 
the stars, and the little birds rested in the deep shade of the 
trees — while the night wind whispered low, and the moon sailed 
in the sky — Philippa L’Estrange, the belle of the season, one of 
the most beautiful women in London, one of the wealthiest 
heiresses in England, wept through the long hours — wept for 
the overthrow of her hope and her love, wept for the life that 
lay in ruins around her. 

She was of dauntless courage — she knew no fear; but she did 
tremble and quail before the future stretching out before her — 
the future that was to have no love, and was to be spent without 
him. 

How was she to bear it? She had known no other hoj)e in 
life, no other dream. What had been childish nonsense to him 
had been to her a serious and exquisite reality. He had either 
forgotten it, or had thought of it only with annoyance; she had 
made it the very corner-stone of her life. 

It was not only. a blow of the keenest and crudest kind to her 
affections, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could have 
possibly received. To think that she, who had more admirers 
at her feet than any other woman in London, should have tried 
so hard to win this one, and have failed — that her beauty, her 
grace, her wit, her talent, should all have been lavished in vain. 

Why did she fail so completely? Why had she not won his 
love? It was given to no other — at least she had the consolation 
of knowing that. He had talked about his ideal, but he had 
not found it; he had his own ideal of womanhood, but he had 
not met with it. 

“Are other women fairer, more lovable than I am?” she asked 
herself. “Why should another win where I have failed?” 

So through the long hours of the starlit night she lamented 
the love and the wreck of her life, she mourned for the hope 
that could never live again, while her name was on the lips of 
men who praised her as the queen of beauty, and fair women 
envied her as one who had but to will and to win. 

She would have given her whole fortune to win his love — not 
once, but a hundred times over. 

It seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she who had 
everything the world could give — beauty, health, wealth, for- 
tune — should ask but this one gift, and that it should be refused 
her. 

She watched the stars until they faded from the skies, and 
then she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed herself to 
sleep. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


73 


CHAPTER XIT. 

It was when the sun, shining into her room, reached her that 
an idea occurred to Philippa which was like the up-springing of 
new life to her. All was not yet lost. He did not love her — he 
had not thought of making her his wife; but it did not follow 
that he would never do so. What had not patience and perse- 
verance accomplished before now? What had not love won? 

He had acknowledged that she was beautiful; he had owned 
to her often how much he admired her. So much granted, was 
it impossible that he should learn to love her? She told herseif 
that she would take courage — that she would persevere — that 
her great love must in time prevail, and that she would devote 
her life unweariedly to it. 

She would carefully hide all traces of pique or annoyance. 
She would never let him find her dull or unhappy. Men liked 
to be amused. She would do her best to entertain him; he 
should never have a moment’s vacancy in her society. She 
would find sparkling anecdotes, repartees, witty, humorous 
stories, to amuse him. He liked her singing; she would culti- 
vate it more and more. She would study him, dress for him, 
live for him, and him alone; she would have no other end, aim, 
thought, or desire. She would herself be the source of all his 
amusement, so that he should look for the every-day pleasures 
of his life to her— and, such being the case, she would win him; 
she felt sure of it. Why had she been so hopeless, so despair- 
ing? There was no real cause for it. Perhaps, after all, he had 
looked upon the whole affair, not as a solemn engagement, but 
as a childish farce. Perhaps he had never really thought of her 
as his wife; but there would be an end to that thoughtlessness 
now. What had passed on the previous day would arouse his 
attention, he could never know the same indifference again. 

So she rose with renewed hope. She shrank from the look of 
her face in the glass. “Cold water and fresh air,” she said to 
herself, with a smile, “will soon remedy such paleness.” And 
thus on that very day began for her the new life — the life in 
which, no longer sure of her love, she was to try to win it. 

He would have loved her had he been able; but his own words 
were true — “Love is fate.” 

There was nothing in common between them — no sympathy 
— none of those mystical cords that, once touched, set two hu- 
man hearts throbbing, and never rest until they are one. He 
could not have been fonder of her than he was, in a brotherly 
sense; but as for lover’s love, from the first day he had seen her, 


74 


\7IFE m NAME ONLY. 


a beautiful, dark-eyed child, until the last he had never felt the 
least semblance of it. 

It was a story of failure. She strove as perhaps woman never 
before had striven, and she succeeded in winning his truest ad- 
miration, his warmest friendship; he felt more at home with her 
than any one else in the wide world. But there it ended — she 
won no more. 

It was not his fault; it was simply because the electric spark 
called love had never been and never could be elicited between 
his soul and hers. He would have done anything for her — he 
was her truest, best friend; but he was not her lover. 

She hoped against hope. Each day she counted the kind 
words he had said to her; she noted every glance, every look, 
every expression. But she could not find that she made any 
progress — nothing that indicated any change from brotherly 
friendship to love. Still she hoped against hope, the chances 
are that she would have died of a broken heart. 

Then the season ended. She went back to Verdun Royal with 
Lady Peters, and Lord Arleigh to Beechgrove. They wrote to 
each other at Christmas, and met at Calverley, the seat of Lord 
Rineham. She contrived, even when away from him, to fill his 
life. She was always consulting him on matters of interest to 
her; she sought his advice continually, and about everything, 
from the renewal of a lease to the making of a new acquaintance. 
“I cannot do wrong.” she would say to him, “if I follow your 
advice.” He was pleased and happy to be able to help the 
daughter of his mother’s dearest friend. 

Her manner completely deceived him. If she had evinced 
the least pique or discontent — if she had by word or look shown 
the least resentment — he would have suspected that she cared 
for him, and would have been on his guard. As it was, he would 
not have believed any one who had told him she loved him. 

The explanation had been made; there was no longer even a 
shadow between them; they both understood that the weak, 
nonsensical tie was broken. That they w’ere the dearest of 
friends, and quite happy, would have been Lord Arleigh’s no- 
tion of matters. Philippa L’Estrange might have told a differ- 
ent story. 

The proposed party at Beechgrove did not come off. There 
were some repairs needed in the eastern wing, and Lord Arleigh 
himself had so many engagements, that no time could be found 
for it; but when the season came round Philippa and he met 
again. 

By this time some of Miss L’Estrange’s admirers had come to 
the conclusion that there was no truth in the report of the en- 
gagement between herself and Lord Arleigh. Among these was 
his grace the Duke of Hazlewood. He loved the beautiful, 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


75 


queenly girl who had so disdainfully refused his coronet — the 
very refusal had made him care more than ever for her. He 
was worldly-Avise enough to know that there were few women in 
Loudon who would have refused him; and he said to himself 
that, if she would not marry him, he would go unmarried to 
the grave. He was one of the first to feel sure that there was 
no truth in the rumors that had grieved him so the jirevious 
year. Miss L’Estrange and Lord Arleigh were by force of cir- 
cumstances great friends — nothing more; and this season he de- 
termined to make a friend of the man he had detested as a rival. 

When the Duke of Hazlewood made up his mind, he generally 
accomplished his desire; he sought Lord Arleigh with such assi- 
duity, he made himself so j^leasant and agreeable to him, that 
the master of Beechgrove soon showed him his most cordial and 
sincere liking. Then they became warm friends. TJie duke 
confided in Lord Arleigh — he told him the whole story of his 
love for Miss L’Estrange. 

“ I know,” he said, “ that no one has so much influence over 
her as you. I do not believe in the absurd stories told about an 
engagement between you, but I see plainly that she is your 
friend, and that you are hers; and I want you to use your influ- 
ence with her in my favor. ” 

Lord Arleigh promised to do so — and he intended to keep his 
promise; they were on such intimate and friendly terms that he 
could venture upon saying anything of that kind to her. She 
would not be displeased— on the contrary, she would like his 
advice; it might even be that before now she had wished to ask 
for it, but had not liked to do so — so completely did these two 
play at cross-purposes and misunderstand each other. 

It was easier to say to himself that he would speak to her as 
the duke wished than to do it. He saw that any allusion to her 
lovers or admirers made her ill at ease — she did "not like it; even 
his laughing comments on the homage paid to her did not please 
her. 

“I do not like lovers,” she said to him one day, “ and I am 
tired of admirers — I prefer friends.” 

“But,” he opposed, laughingly, “if all that wise men and 
philosphers tell us is correct, there are no true friends.” 

He never forgot the light that shone in her face as she raised 
it to his. 

“ I do not believe that,” she returned; “ there are true friends 
— you are one to me.” 

The tenderness of her manner struck him forcibly. Some- 
thing kinder and softer stirred in his heart than had ever stirred 
before for her; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. 

“You are right, Philippa,” he said. “If ever a woman had 
a true, stanch friend, I am and will be one*to you.” 


76 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


From her heart to her lips rose the words: “ Shall you never 
be more?” Perhaps even her eyes asked the question more elo- 
quently than her lips could have done, for his face flushed, and 
she turned away with some slight embarrassment. 

“I shall try and keep your friendship,” she said; “ but that 
will be easily done, Norman.” 

“Yes,” he replied; “one of the traditions of our house is 
‘truth in friendship, trust in love, honor in war.’ To be a true 
friend and a noble foe is characteristic of the Arleighs.” 

“ I hope that you will never be a foe of mine,” she rejoined, 
laughingly. And that evening, thinking over the events of the 
day she flattered herself that she had made some little progress 
after all. 


CHAPTEK XIII. 

The opportunity that Lord Arleigh looked for came at last. 
Philippa had some reason to doubt the honesty of a man whom 
she had been employing as agent. She was kind of heart, and 
did not wish to punish him, yet she felt sure that he had not 
done his duty by her. To speak to her solicitors about it would 
be, she felt, injurious to him, whether innocent or guilty. If 
innocent, it would create a prejudice against him; if guilty, 
they would wish to puilish him. She resolved upon laying the 
matter before Lord Arleigh, and seeing what he thought of it. 

He listened very patiently, examined the affair, and then told 
her that he believed she had been robbed. 

“What shall I do?” she asked, looking at him earnestly. 

“I know Avhat you ought to do, Philippa. You ought to 
punish him.” 

“But he has a wife, Norman, and innocent little children; in 
exposing him I shall punish them, and they are innocent.” 

“ That is one of the strangest of universal laws to me,” said 
Lord Arleigh — “why the innocent always do, and always must, 
suffer for the guilty; it is one of the mysteries I shall never un- 
derstand. Common sense tells me that you ought to expose 
this man — that he ought to be punished for what he has done. 
Yet, if you do, his wife and children will be dragged down into 
an abyss of misery. Suppose you make a compromise of mat- 
ters and lecture him well.” 

He was half smiling as he sjjoke, but she took every word in 
serious earnest. 

“Philippa,” he continued, “why do you not marry? A 
husband would save you all this trouble; he would attend to 
your affairs, and shield you from annoyances of this kind.” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


77 


“The answer to your question, ‘Why do I not marry?* 
would form a long story,** she replied, and then she turned the 
conversation. 

But he was determined to keep his word, and pleaded with 
her for the duke. Another opportunity came that evening. It 
was Lady Peters’ birthday, and Philippa had invited some of her 
most intimate friends; not young people, but those with whom 
she thought her chape^'on would enjoy herself best. The result 
was a very pleasant dinner-party, followed by a very pleasant 
evening. Lord Arleigh could not be absent, for it was, in some 
measure, a family fete. 

The guests did not remain very late, and Lady Peters, profess- 
ing herself tired with the exertions she had made, lay down 
on a couch, and was soon asleep. Philippa stood by the win- 
dow, with the rose-silk hangings drawn. 

“ Come out on the balcony,” she said to Lord Arleigh, “ the 
room is very warm.” 

It was night, but the darkness was silver-gray, not black. 
The sky above was brilliant with the gleam of a thousand stars, 
the moon was shining behind some silvery clouds, the great 
masses of foliage in the park were just stirred with the whisper 
of the night, and sweetest odors came from heliotrope and 
mignonnette; the brooding silence of the summer night lay 
over the land. 

Philippa sat down, and Lord Arleigh stood by her side. 

The moonlight falling on her beautiful face softened it into 
wondrous loveliness — it was pale, refined, with depths of passion 
in the dark eyes, and tender, tremulous smiles on the scarlet 
lips. She wore some material of white and gold. A thin scarf 
was thrown carelessly over her white shoulders. When the 
wind stirred it blew tlie scarf against her face. 

She might have been the very goddess of love, she looked so 
fair out in the starlight. If there had been one particle of love 
in Lord Arleigh’s heart, that hour and scene must have called it 
into life. For a time they sat in perfect silence. Her head was 
thrown back against a pillar round which red roses clustered 
and clung, and the light of the stars fell full upon her face; the 
dark eyes were full of radiance. 

“ How beautiful it is, Norman,” she said, suddenly. “ What 
music has ever equaled the whispers of the night-wind? It 
seems a sad pity after all that we are obliged to lead such con- 
ventional lives, and spend the greater part of them in warm, 
close rooms.” 

“You have a great love for out-of-door freedom,” he re- 
marked, laughingly. 

“Yes, I love the fresh air. I think if any one asked me what 
I loved best on earth, I should say wind. I love it in all its 


73 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

moods— rough, caressing, tender, impetuous, calm, stormy. It 
is always beautiful. Listen to it now, just sighing in tlie 
branches of those tall trees. Could auy music be sweeter or 
softer?” 

“No,” he replied, and then added, “ The time and the scene 
embolden me, Philippa; there is something that I wish to say to 
you— something that I long have wished to say. Will you hear 
it now?” 


A tremor like that of the leaves in the wind seemed to pass 
over her. There was a startled expression in the dark eyes, a 
quiver of the crimson lips. Was it coming at last — this for 
which she had longed all her life? She controlled all outward 
signs of emotion and turned to him quite calmly. 

“I am always ready to listen to you, Norman, and to hear 
what you have to say.” 

“You see, Philippa, the starlight makes me bold. If we were 
in that brilliantly-lighted drawing-room of yours, I should 
probably hesitate long before speaking plainly, as I am going to 
do now.” 


He sa\y her clasp her hands tightly, but he had no key to what 
was passing in her mind. He drew nearer to her. 

“You know, Philippa,” he began, “that I have always been 
fond of you. I Jiave always taken the same interest in you that 
I should have taken in a dearly -beloved sister of my own, if 
Heaven had given me one.” 

She murmured some few words which he did not hear. 

“I am going to speak to you now,” he continued, “just as 
though you were my own sister, have I vour permission to do 
so, Phdippa?” 

“ Yes,” she replied. 

^And you promise not to be angry about anything that I may 


with you, Norman,” she answered, 
ihen 1 want you to tell me why you wdll not marry the 
Duke of Hazlewood. You have treated me as your brother and 
your iriend. The question might seem impertinent from another; 
trom me it will not appear impertinent, not curious — simply 

• kindly interest. Why wdll you not marry him, Pliii- 

ippa? ^ ^ ^ 


A ^uick sharp spasm of pain passed over her face. She was 
silent for a minute before she answered him, and then she 
said: 


The reason is very simple, Norman — because I do not love 
him.” 


“That is certainly a strong reason; but, Philippa, let me ask 
you now another question — why do you not love him?” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


79 


She could have retorted, ‘‘Whjdo you not love me?” but 
prudence forbade it. 

“ I cannot tell you. I have heard you say that love is fate. I 
should imagine it must be because the Duke of Hazlewood is 
not m\ fate.” 

He did not know what answer to make to that, it was so en- 
tirely his own way of thinking. 

“But, Philippa,” he resumed after a pause, “do you not 
think tliat you might love him if you tried?” 

“1 have never thought about it,” was the quiet reply. 

Dord Arleigh continued: 

“In my idea he is one of the most charming men in England; 
I have never seen a more perfect type of what an English gentle- 
man should be — he is noble, generous, brave, chivalrous. What 
fault do you find with him, Philippa?” 

“ I?” she asked, lookmg up at him in wonder. “My dear 
Norman, I have never formd fault with the duke in my life.” 

“Then why can you not love him?” 

“ That is a very different thing. I find no fault with him; on 
the contrary, I agree with you that he is one of the noblest of 
men, yet I have never thought of marrying him.” 

“ But, Philippa ” — and with kindly impressiveness he laid one 
hand on her shoulder — “ why do you not think of marrying 
him? Between you and myself there can be no compliments, 
no flattery. I tell you that of all the women in England you 
are the moat fitted to be the Duchess of Hazlewood — and you 
would be a beautiful duchess, too. Think of the position you 
would occupy — second only to royalty. 1 should like to see you 
in such a position — you would fill it grandly. Think of the 
power, the influence, the enormous amount of good you could 
do; think of it all, Philippa?” 

He did not see the sudden, sharp quiver of pain that pavssed 
over the beautiful face, nor how pale it grew in the starlight. 

“ I am thinking,” she answered, quietly — “I am listening at- 
tentively to all that you say.” 

She drew the light scarf more closely around her shoulders, 
and shuddered as though a chill breeze had passed over her. 

“ Are you cold, dear?” he asked kindly. 

“Cold! How could I be on this warm starlit night? Go on, 
Norman; let me hear all that you have to say.” 

“I am trying to persuade you to accept what seems to me one 
of the happiest lots ever offered to woman. I want to see you 
the Duke of Hazlewood’s wufe. I cannot imagine any man more 
calculated to win a woman’s love, or to please her fancy, than he 
is. He is young, handsome, noble in face and figure as he is in 
heart and soul; and he is clever and gifted.” 

“ Yes,” she allowed, slowly, “he is all that, Norman.” 


80 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ Some day or other he will be the leading spirit in the land; 
he will be the head of a great party.” 

“ That I believe,” she agreed. 

“And he loves you so well, Philippa; I have never seen a 
man more devoted. How many years has he loved you now — 
two or three? And he tells me that he shall go unmarried to the 
grave unless you consent to be his wife.” 

“ Did he tell you that? He must indeed be attached to me,” 
she observed. “ Norman, did he ask you to say all this to me?” 

“ He asked me to plead his cause,” replied Lord Arleigh. 

“Why did he ask you to do so?” 

“ Because— believing us to be what we really are, Philippa, 
tried and true friends — he thought I should have some influence 
over you. ” 

“ Clever duke !” she said. “Norman, are you well versed in 
modern poetry?” 

He looked up in blank surprise at the question — it was so 
totally unexpected. 

“ In modern poetry?” he repeated. “ Yes, I think I am. Why, 
Philippa?” 

“ I will tell you why,” she said, turning her beautiful face to 
him. “If you will be patient, I will tell you why.” 

She was silent for a few minutes, and then Lord Arleigh 
said: 

“ I am patient enough, Philippa; will you tell me why?” 

The dark eyes raised to his had in them a strange light — a 
strange depth of passion. 

“I want to know if you remember the beautiful story of 
Priscilla, the Puritan maiden,” she said, in a tremulous voice — 
“ Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth?” 

“You mean the story of Miles Standish,” he corrected. “Yes, 
I remember it, Philippa.” 

“ That which a Puritan maiden could do, and all posterity siog 
her praises for, surely I — a woman of the world — may do with- 
out blame. Do you remember, Norman, when John Alden goes 
to her to do the wooing which the stanch soldier does not do 
for himself — do you remember her answer? Let me give you 
the verse — 

“ ‘But, as he warmed and glowed in his simple and eloquent language, 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, 

Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter. 
Said in a tremulous voice, “Whv don’t you speak for yourself, 
John?””’ 

The sweet musical voice died away in the starlight, the wind 
stirred the crimson roses — silence, solemn and deep, fell over 
Lord Arleigh and his companion. Philippa broke it. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


81 


“ Surely you, in common with all of us, admire the Puritan 
maiden, Norman?” 

“Yes, I do admire her,” he answered; “she is one of my 
favorite heroines.” 

“ So she is of mine; and I love her the more for the womanly 
outburst of honest truth that triumphed over all conventionality. 
Norman, what she, the ‘loveliest maiden in Plymouth,’ the be- 
loved of Miles Standish, said to John Alden, I say to you — ‘ Why 
don’t you speak for yourself ?’ ” 

There was infinite tenderness in his face as he bent over her 
— infinite pain in his voice as he spoke to her. 

“John Alden loved Priscilla,” he said, slowly — “she was the 
one woman in all the world for him — his ideal — his fate, but I — 
oh, Philippa, how I hate myself because I cannot answer you 
differently! You are my friend, my sister, but not the woman I 
must love as my wife.” 

“ When you urged me a few minutes since to marry your 
friend, you asked me why I could not love him, seeing that he 
had all lovable qualities. Norman, why can you not love me?” 

“I can answer you only in the some words — I do not know. 
I love you with as true an affection as ever man gave to woman; 
but I have not for you a lover’s love. I cannot tell why, for you 
are one of tbe fairest of fair women.” 

“Fair, but not your ‘ideal woman,’ ” she said, gently. 

“No, not my ‘ideal woman,”* he returned; “my sister, my 
friend. — not my love.” 

“ I am to blame,” she said, proudly; “ but again I must' plead 
that I am like Priscilla. While you are pleading the cause of 
another, the truth came uppermost; you must forgive me for 
speaking so forcibly. As the poem says: 

“ ‘ There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotions 
That if, by chance, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble. 
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret. 

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.’ ” 

“ My dearest Philippa, you have not been to blame,” he said; 
“ you judge yourself so hardly always.” 

‘•It is the fate of a woman to be silent,” she said again. 
“Still, I am glad that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell 
me what your ideal of woman is like, that I may know her when 
I see her?” 

“Nay,” he objected, gently, “let us talk of something else.” 

But she persisted. 

“Tell me,” she urged, “that I may know in what she differs 
from me.” 

“I do not know that I can tell you,” he replied. “I have 
not thought much of the matter.” 


82 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ But if any one asked you to describe your ideal of what a 
woman should be, you could do it,’’ she pursued. 

“ Perhaps so, but at best it would be but an imperfect sketch. 
She must be young, fair, gentle, pure, tender of heart, noble in 
soul, with a kind of shy, sweet grace; frank, yet not outspoken; 
free from all affectation, yet with nothing unwomanly; a mixture 
of child and woman. If I love an ideal, it is something like 
that.” 

“And she must be fair, like all the ladies Arleigh, with eyes 
like the hyacinth, and hair tinged with gold, I suppose, Nor- 
man?” 

“Yes; I saw a picture once in Borne that realized my notion 
of true womanly loveliness. It was a very fair face, with some- 
thing of the innocent wonder of a child mixed with the dawn- 
ing love and passion of noblest womanhood.” 

“You admire an ingenue.- We have both our tastes; mine, if 
I were a man, would incline more to the brilliant and hand- 
some.” 

She would have added more, but at that moment Lady Peters 
drew aside the silken hanging. 

“My dear children,” she said, “I should ill play my part of 
chaperon if I did not remind. you of the hour. We have been 
celebrating my birthday, but my birthday is past and gone^it 
is after midnight.” 

Lord Arleigh looked up in wonder. 

“After midnight? Impossible! Yet I declare my watch 
proves that it is. It is all the fault of the starlight. Lady 
Peter.^; you must blame that.” 

Lady Peters went out to them. 

“ I do not wonder at your lingering here,” she said. “How 
calm and sweet the night is! It reminds me of the night in 
‘ Borneo and Juliet.’ It was on such a night Jessica ” 

Philippa held up her hands in horror. 

“No more poetry to-night, dear Lady Peters; we have had 
more than enough.” 

“Is that true. Lord Arleigh? Have you really had more than 
enough?” 

“I have not found it so,” he replied. “ However, I must go. 
I wish time would sometimes stand still; all pleasant hours end 
so soon. Good-night, Lady Peters.” 

But that most discreet of chaperons had already re-entered the 
drawing-room — it was no part of her business to be present 
when the two friends said good-night. 

“Good-night, Philippa,” he said, in a low, gentle voice, 
bending over her. 

The wind stirred her perfumed hair until it touched his cheek, 
the leaves of the crimson roses fell in a shower around her. She 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


83 


raised her beautiful pale face to his — the unspeakable love, the 
yearning sorrow on it, moved him greatly. He bent down and 
touched her brow with his lips. 

“Good-night, Philippa, my sister — my friend,” he said. 

Even by the faint -starlight he saw a change pass over her face. 

“Good-night,” she responded. “I have more to say to you, 
but Lady Peters will be horrified if you remain any longer. 
You will call to-morrow, and then I can finish my conversa- 
tion?” 

“I will come,” he replied, gravely. 

He waited a moment to see if she would pass into the draw- 
ing-room before him, but she turned away and leaned her arms 
on the stone balustrade. 

It was nearly half an hour afterward when Lady Peters once 
more drew aside the hangings. 

“Philippa,” she said, gently, “you will take cold out there.” 

She wondered why the girl paused some few minutes, before 
answering; then Miss L’Estrange said, in a low, calm voice: 

“ Do not wait for me. Lady Peters; I am thinking and do not 
wish to be interrupted.” 

But Lady Peters did not seem quite satisfied. 

“I do not like to leave you sitting there,” she said, “ the ser- 
vants will think it strange.” 

“Their thoughts do not concern me,” she returned, haughti- 
ly. “Good-night, Lady Peters; do not interrupt me again, if 
you please.” 

And the good-tempered chaperon went away, thinking to her- 
self that perhaps she had done wrong in interrupting the tete-a- 
tete. 

“Still I did it for the best,” she said to herself; “and ser- 
vants will talk.” 

Philippa L’Estrange did not move. Lady Peters thought she 
spoke in a calm, proud voice. She would have been surprised 
could she have seen the beautiful face all wet with tears; for 
Philippa had laid her head on the cold stone, and was weeping 
such tears as women w^eep but once in life. She sat there not 
striving to subdue the tempest of emotion that §hook her, giv- 
ing full vent to her passion of grief, stretching out her hands 
and crying to her lost love. 

It was all over now. She had stepped down from the proud 
height of her glorious womanhood to ask for his love, and he 
had told her that he had none to give her. She had thrown 
aside her pride, her delicacy. She had let him read the guard- 
ed secret of her heart, only to hear his reply — that she was not 
his ideal of womanhood. She had asked .for bread — he had 
given her a stone. She had lavished her love at his feet — he 


‘84 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


had coolly stepped aside. She had lowered her pride, humili- 
ated herself, all in vain. 

“No woman,” she said to herself, “would ever pardon such 
a slight or forgive such a wrong.” 

At first she wept as though her heart would break — tears fell 
like rain from her eyes, tears that seemed to burn as they fell; 
then after a time pride rose and gained the ascendancy. She, 
the courted, beautiful woman, to be so humiliated, so slighted! 
She, for whose smile the noblest in the land asked in vain, to 
have her almost offered love so coldly refused! She, the very 
queen of love and beauty, to be so spurned! 

When the passion of grief had subsided, when the hot angry 
glow of wounded pride died away, she raised her face to the 
night-skies. 

“ I swear,” she said, “ that I will be revenged — that I will take 
such vengeance on him as will bring his x^ride down far lower 
than he has brought mine. I will never forgive him. I have 
loved him with a devotion passing the love of woman. I will 
hate more than I have loved him. I would have given my life 
to make him happy. I now consecrate it to vengeance. I swear 
to take such revenge on him as shall bring the name of Arleigh 
low indeed.” 

And that vow she intended to keep. 

“If ever I forget what has passed here,” she said to herself, 
“ may Heaven forget me!” 

To her servants she had never seemed colder or haughtier 
than on this night, when she kept them waiting while she regis- 
tered her vow. 

What shape was her vengeance to take? 

“ I shall find out,” she thought; “it will come in time.” 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

Miss L’Estrange was standing alone in the small conservatory 
on the morning following her eventful conversation with Lord 
Arleigh, when the latter was announced. How she had passed 
the hours of the previous night was known only to herself. As 
the world looks the fairer and fresher for the passing of a heavy 
storm, the sky more blue, the color of flowers and trees bright- 
er, so she on this morning, after those long hours of agony, 
looked more beautiful than ever. Her white morning dress, 
made of choice Indian muslin, was relieved by faint touches of 
pink; fi no white lace encircled her throat and delicate wrists. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


85 


Tall and slender, she stood before a large plant with scarlet 
blossoms when he came in. 

Lord Arieigh looked as he felt — ill at ease. He had not slept 
through thinking of the conversation in the balcony — it had 
made him profoundly wretched. He would have given much 
not to renew it; but she had asked him to come, and he had 
promised. 

Would she receive him with tears and reproaches? Would 
she cry out that he was cold and cruel? Would she torture him- 
self and herself by trying to find out why he did not love her? 
Or would she be sad, cold, and indifferent? 

His relief was great when she raised a laughing, radiant face 
to his and held out her hand in greeting. 

“Good-morning, Norman,” she said, in a pleasant voice. 
“Now confess that I am a clever actress, and that I have given 
you a real fright.” 

He looked at her in wonder. 

“I do not understand you,” he returned. 

“It is so easy to mislead a man,” she said, laughingly. 

“I do not understand, Philippa,” he repeated. 

“Did you really take all my pretty balcony scene in earnest 
last night?” she asked. 

“ I did indeed,” he replied; and again the clear musical laugh 
seemed to astonish him. 

“ I could not have believed it, Norman,” she said. “Did you 
really think 1 was in earnest?” 

“Certainly I did. Were you not?” 

“No,” she answered. 

“ Then I thank Heaven for it,” he said, “ for I have been very 
unhappy about you. Why did you say so much if you did not 
mean it, Philippa?” 

“Because you annoyed me by pleading the cause of the duke. 
He had no right to ask you to do such a thing, and you were 
unwise to essay such a task. I have punished you by mystify- 
ing you — I shall next punish him.” 

“ Then you did not mean all that you said?” he interrogated, 
still wondering at this unexpected turn of events. 

“ I should have given you credit for more penetration, Nor- 
man,” she replied, “I to mean such nonsense — I to avow a 
preference for any man! Can you have been so foolish as to 
think so? It was only a charade, acted for your amusement.” 

“Oh, Philippa,” he cried “I am so pleased, dear! And yet 
— yet, do you know, I wish that you had not done it. It has 
given me a shock. I shall never be quite sure whether you are 
jesting or serious. I shall never feel that I really understand 
you.” 

“You will, Norman. It did seem so ridiculous for you, my 


S6 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


old playfellow, to sit lecturing- me so gravely about matrimony. 
You took it so entirely for granted that I did not care for the 
duke.” 

“And do you care for him, Philippa?” be asked. 

“ Can you doubt it, after the description you gave of him, 
Norman ?” 

“ You are mocking me again, Philippa,” he said. 

“But you were very eloquent, Norman,” she persisted. “I 
have never heard any one more so. You painted his Grace of 
Hazlewood in such glowing colors that no one could help fall- 
ing in love with him. ” 

“Did I? Well, I do think highly of him, Philippa. And so, 
after all, you really care for him?” 

“ I do not think I shall tell you, Norman. You deserve to be 
kept in the dark. Would you tell me if you found your ideal 
woman?” 

“I would. I would tell you at once,” he replied, eagerly. 

“If you could but have seen your face!” she cried. “I feel 
tempted to act the charade over again. Why, Norman, what 
likeness can you see between Philippa L’Estrange, the proud, 
cold woman of the world, and that sweet little Puritan maiden 
at her spinning wheel?” 

- “I should never have detected any likeness unless you your- 
self had first pointed it out,” he said. “Tell me, Philippa, are 
you really going to make the duke happy at last?” 

“It may be that I am going to make him profoundly misera- 
ble. As punishment for your lecture, I shall refuse to tell you 
anything about it,” she replied; and then she added: “You will 
ride with me this morning, Norman?” 

“Yes, I will ride with you, Philippa. I cannot tell you how 
thankful and relieved I am.” 

“To find that you have not made quite so many conquests as 
you thought,” she said. “It was a sorry jest to play after all; 
but you provoked me to it, Norman. I want you to make me a 
promise.” 

“That I will gladly do,” he replied. Indeed he was so re- 
lieved, so pleased, so thankful to be freed from the load of self- 
reproach, that he would have promised anything. 

Her face grew earnest. She held out her hand to him. 

“ Promise me this, Norman,” she said — “that, whether I re- 
main Philippa L’Estrange or become Duchess of Hazlewood — 
no matter what I am, or may be — you will always be tlie same 
to me as you are now — my brother, my truest, dearest, best 
friend. Promise me.” 

“I do promise, Philippa, with all my heart,” he responded. 
“And I will never break my promise.” * 

“If I marry, you will come to see me— you will trust in me— 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


S7 


you will be just what you are now — you will make my house 
your home, as you do this?” 

“Yes — that is, if your husband consents,” replied Lord Ar- 
leigh. 

“Eely upon it, my husband — if I ever have one — will not dis- 
pute my wishes,” she said. “ I am not the model woman you 
dream of. She, of course, will be submissive in everything: I 
intend to have my own way.” 

“We are friends for life, Philixjpa,” he declared; “and I do 
not think that any one who really understands me will ever cavil 
at our friendship.” 

“Then, that being settled, we will go at once for our ride. 
How those who know me best would laugh, Norman, if thefr 
heard of the incident of the Puritan maiden! If I go to an- 
other fancy ball this season, I shall go as Priscilla of Plymouth, 
and you had better go as Jolm AldenP 

He held up his hands imploringly. 

“Do not tease me about it any more, Philippa,” he remarked. 
“I cannot quite tell why, but you make me feel both insignifi- 
cant and vain; yet nothing would have been further from my 
mind than the ideas you have filled it with.” 

“ Own you were mistaken, and then I will be generous and 
forgive you,” she said, laughingly. 

“I was mistaken — cruelly so — weakly so — happily so,” he re- 
plied. “Now you will be generous and spare me.” 

He did not see the bitter smile with which she turned away, 
nor the pallor that crept even to her lips. Once again in his 
life Lord Arleigh was completely deceived. 

A week afterward he received a note in Philippa’s handwrit- 
ing; it said, simply: 

“Dear Nor:,ian: You were good enough to plead the duke’s 
cause. When you meet him next, ask him if he luis anything to 
tell you. Phtlippa L'Estrange.” 

What the Duke of Hazlewood had to tell was that Miss 
L’Estrange had promised to be his wife, and that the marriage 
was to take place in August. He prayed Lord Arleigh to be 
present as his “best man ” on the occasion. 

On the same evening Lady Peters and Miss L’Estrange sat in 
the drawing-room at Verdun House, alone. Philippa had been 
very restless. She had been walking to and fro; she had opened 
her piano and closed it; she had taken up volume after volume 
and laid it down again, when suddenly her eyes fell on a book 
prettily bound in crimson and gold, which Lady Peters had been 
reading. 

“ What book is that?” she asked, suddenly. 


88 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ Lord Lytton’s ‘ Lady of Lyons/ ” replied Lady Peters. ' 
Philippa raised it, looked through it, and then, with a strange 
smile and a deep sigh, laid it down. 

“At last,’* she said — “I have found it at last!” 

“Found what, my dear?” asked Lady Peters, looking up. 
“Something I have been searching for,” replied Philippa, as 
she quitted the room, still with the strange smile on her lips. 


CHAPTEK XV. 

The great event of the year succeeding was the appearance of 
the Duchess of Hazlewood. Miss L’Estrange the belle and the 
heiress, had been very popular; her Grace of Hazlew^ood was 
more popular still. She w^as queen of fashionable London. At 
her mansion all the most exclusive met. She had resolved upon 
giving her life to society, upon cultivating it, upon making her- 
self its mistress and queen. She succeeded. She became es- 
sentially a leader of society. To belong to the Duchess of 
Hazlewood’s “set” was to be the creme de la creme. The beau- 
tiful young duchess had made up her mind upon two things. 
The first was that she would be a queen of society; the second, 
that she would reign over such a circle as had never been 
gathered together before. She w^ould have youth, beauty, wit, 
genius; she would not trouble about wealth. She would admit 
no one who was not famous for some qualification or other-^ 
some grace of body or mind — some talent or great gift. The 
house should be open to talent of all kinds, but never open to 
anything commonplace. She would be the encourager of geni- 
us, the patroness of the fine arts, the friend of all talent. 

It was a splendid career that she marked out for herself, and 
she was the one woman in England especially adapted for it. 
The only oVqection to it was that while she gave every scope to 
imagination — while she provided for all intellectual wants and 
needs — she made no allow^ance for the affections; they never en- 
tered into her calculations. 

In a few weeks half London was talking about the beauti- 
ful Duchess of Hazlewood. In all the “Fashionable Intelli- 
gence” of the day she had a long pai*agraph to herself. The 
duchess had given a ball, had had a grand reunion^ a soiree, a 
garden-party; the duchess had been at such an entertainment; 
when a long description of her dress or costume would follow. 
Nor was it only among the upper ten thousand that she was 
so pre-eminently popular. If a bazar, a fancy fair, a ball, were 
needed to aid some charitable cause, she was always chosen as 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


89 


patroness; her vote, her interest, one word from her, was all-suf- 
hcient. 

Her wedding had been a scene of the most gorgeous magni- 
ficence. She had been married from her house at Verdun 
Eoyal, and half the county had been present at what was cer- 
tainly the most magnificent ceremonial of the year. The lead- 
ing journal, the Illustrated Intelligence, produced a supplement 
on the occasion, which was very much admired. The duke gave 
the celebrated artist, M. Delorme, a commission to paint the in- 
terior of the church at Verdun Royal as it appeared while the 
ceremony was proceeding. That picture forms the chief orna- 
ment now of the grand gallery at the Court. 

The wedding presents were something wonderful to behold; 
it was considered that the duchess had one of the largest for- 
tunes in England in jewels alone. The wedding-day W’as the 
fourth of August, and it had seemed as though nature herself 
had done her utmost to make the day most brilliant. 

It was not often that so beautiful a bride w'as seen as the 
young duchess. She bore her part in the scene very bravely. 
The i^apers told how Lord Arleigh was “best man” on the oc- 
casion; but no one guessed even ever so faintly of the tragedy 
that came that morning to a crisis. The happy pair went off to 
Vere Court, the duke’s favorite residence, and there for a short 
time the public lost sight of them. 

If the duke had been asked to continue the history of his 
w'edding-day, he w^ould have told a strange story — how, w^hen 
they were in the railway -carriage together, he had turned to his 
beautiful young wife with some loving words on his lips, and 
she had cried out that she wanted air, to let no one come near 
her— that she had stretched out her hands wildly, as though 
beating off something terrible. 

He believed that she was overcome by excitement or the heat 
of the day; he soothed her as he would have soothed a child; 
and when thev reached Vere Court he insisted that they should 
rest. She did^ so. Her dark hair fell round her white neck and 
shoulders, her beautiful face was flushed, the scarlet lips trem- 
bled as tliough she w'ere a grieving child; and the young duke 
stood watching her, thinking how fair she w’as and what a 
treasure he had won. Then he heard her murmur some w^ords 
in her sleep— what were they? He could not quite distinguish 
them; it was something about a Puritan maiden and 

jo/m— he could not catch the name— something that did not 
concern him, and in which he had no part. Suddenly she held 
out her arms, and, in a voice he never forgot, cried, “Oh, my 
love, my love!” That of course meant himself. Down on his 
knees by her side went the young duke — he covered her hands 
with kisses. • 


90 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“My darling,’* he said, “you are better now. I have been 
alarmed about you, Philippa; I feared that you were ill. My 
darling, give me a word and a smile.” 

She had quite recovered herself tlien; she remembered that 
she was Duchess of Hazlewood — wife of the generous noble- 
man who was at her side. She was mistress of herself in a 
moment. 

“Have I alarmed you?” she said. “I did feel ill; but I am 
better now — quite well, in fact. ” 

She said to herself that she had her new life to begin, and the 
sooner she began it the better; so she made hei*self very charm- 
ing to the young duke, and he was in ecstasies over the prize he 
had won. 

Thenceforwarward they lived happily enough. If the young 
duke found his wife less loving, less tender of heart, than he 
had believed her to be, he had no complaint. 

“She is so beautiful and gifted,” he would say to himself. 
“I cannot expect everything. I know that she loves me, al- 
though she does not say much about it. I know that I can 
trust her in all things, even though she makes no protestations. ” 

They fell into the general routine of life. One loved — the 
other allowed herself to be loved. The duke adored his wife, 
and she accepted his adoration. 

They were never spoken of as a model couple, although every 
one agreed that it was an excellent match — that they weie very 
happy. The duke looked up with wondering admiration to the 
beautiful stately lady who bore his name. She could not do 
wrong in his eyes, everything she said was right, all she did was 
perfect. He never dreamed of opposing her wishes. There 
was no lady in England so completely her own mistress, so com- 
pletely mistress of every one and everything around her, as her 
Grace of Hazlewood. 

When the season came around again, and the brilliant life 
which she had laid out for herself was hers, she might have 
been the happiest of women but for the cloud which darkened 
her whole existence. Lord Arleigh Iiad kept his promise — he 
had been her true friend, with her husband’s full permission. 
The duke was too noble and generous himself to feel any such 
ignoble passion as jealousy — he was far too confiding. To be 
jealous of his wife would never have entered his mind; nor was 
there the least occasion for it. If Lord Arleigh had been her 
own brother, their relationship could not have been of a more 
blamelessL kind; even the censorious world of fashion, so quick 
to detect a scandal, so merciless in its enjoyment of one, never 
presumed to cast an aspersion on this friendship. There was 
something so frank, so open about it, that blame was an impos- 
sibility. If the duke was busy or engaged when his wife wanted 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


91 


to ride or drive, lie asked her cousin Lord Arleigb to take his 
place, as lie would have asked his own brother. If the duke 
could not attend opera or ball, Lord Arleigh was at hand. He 
often said it was a matter of perplexity to him which was his 
own home — whether he liked Beechgrove, Verdun Royal or Vere 
Court best. 

“ No one was ever so happy, so blessed vith true friends as I 
am,'’ he would say; at which speech the young duchess would 
smile that strange fathomless smile so few understood. 

If they went to Vere Court, Lord Arleigh was generally asked 
to go with them; the Duke really liked him — a great deal for his 
own sake, more still for the sake of his wife. He could under- 
stand the childish friendship having grown with their growth; 
and he was too noble to expect anything less than perfect sin- 
cerity and truth. 

The duchess kept her word. She made no further allusion to 
the Puritan maiden — that little episode had, so it appeared, 
completely escaped her memory. There was one thing to be 
noticed — she often read the “Lady cf Lyons,” and appeared to 
delight in it. When she had looked through a few pages, she 
would close the book with a sigh and a strange, brooding smile. 
At times, too, she would tease Lord Arleigh about his ideal wo- 
man; but that was always in her husband’s presence. 

“You have not found the ideal woman yet, Norman?” she 
would ask him, laughingly; and he would answer. “No, not 
yet.” 

Then the duke would wax eloquent, and tell him that he 
really knew little of life — that if he wanted to be happy he must 
look for a wife. 

“ You were easily contented,” the duchess would say. “ Nor- 
man wants an ideal. You were content with a mere mortal — he 
will never be.” 

“ Then find him an ideal, Philippa,” would be the duke’s re- 
ply. “ You know some of the nicest girls in London; find him < 
an ideal among them.” 

Then to the beautiful face would come the strange, brooding 
smile. 

“ Give me time,” would her Grace of Hazlewood say; “ I shall 
find just what I want for him — in time.” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

It was a beautiful, pure morning. For many years there had 
not been so brilliant a season in London; every one seemed to be 
enjoying it; ball succeeded ball;/c/e succeeded fete. Lord Ar- 
leigh had received a note from the Duchess of Hazlewood, 


92 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

asking him if he would call before noon, as she wished to see 
him. 

He went at once to Verdun House, and was told that the 
duchess was engaged, but vt^ould see him in a few minutes. Con- 
trary to the usual custom, he was shown into a pretty morning- 
room, one exclusively used by the duchess — a small, octagonal 
room, daintily furnished, which opened on to a small rose-gar- 
den, also exclusively kept for the use of the duchess. Into this 
garden neither friend nor visitor ever ventured; it was filled with 
rose-trees, a little fountain played in the midst, and a small 
trellised arbor was at one side. Why had he been shown into the 
duchess’ private room? He had often heard the duke tease his 
wife about her room, and say that no one was privileged to enter 
it; why, then, was such a privilege accorded him? 

He smiled to himself, thinking that in all probability it was 
some mistake of the servants; he pictured to himself the ex- 
pression of Philippa’s face when she should find him there. He 
looked round; the room bore traces of her presence — around 
him were some of her favorite flowers and books. 

He went to the long French window, wondering at the rich 
collection of roses, and there he saw a picture that never forsook 
his memory again— there he met his fate — saw the ideal woman 
of his dreams at last. He had treated all notions of love in a 
very off-hand, cavalier kind of manner; he had contented him- 
self with his own favorite axiom — “ Love is fate;” if ever it was 
to come to him it would come, and there would be an end of it. 
He had determined on one thing — this same love should be his 
slave, his servant, never his master; but, as he stood looking out, 
he was compelled to own his kingship was over. 

Standing there, his heart throbbing as it had never done be- 
fore, every nerve thrilling, his face flushed, a strange, unknown 
sensation filling him with vague, sweet wonder. Lord Arleigh 
met his fate. 

This was the picture he saw — a beautiful but by no means a 
common one. In Ihe trellised arbor, which contained a stand 
and one or two chairs, was a young girl of tall, slender figure, 
with a fair, sweet face, inexpressibly lovely, lilies and roses ex- 
quisitely blended — eyes like blue hyacinths, large, bright, and 
starlight, with white lids and dark long lashes, so dark that they 
gave a peculiar expression to the eyes — one of beauty, thought, 
and originality. The lips were sweet and sensitive, beautiful 
V\^hen smiling, but even more V)eautiful in repose. The oval con- 
tour of tlie face was perfect; from the white brow, where the 
veins were so clearly marked, rose a crown of golden hair, not 
brown or auburu, but of pure pale gold — a ddwer of beauty in 
itself. 

The expression of the face was one of shy virgin beauty. One 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


93 


could imagine meeting it in the dim aisles of some cathedral, 
near the shrine of a saint, as an angel or a Madonna; one could 
imagine it bending over a sick child, lighting with its pure love- 
liness the home of sorrow; but one could never picture it in a 
ball-room. It was a face of girlish, saintly purity, of fairest love- 
liness — a face where* innocence, poetry, and passion all seemed 
to blend in one grand harmony. There was nothing common- 
place about it. One could not mistake it for a plebeian face; 
“patrician” was written on every feature. 

Lord Arleigh looked at her like one in a dream. 

“If she had an aureole round her head, I should take her for 
an angel,” he thought to himself, and stood watching her. 

The same secret subtle harmony prevaded every action; each 
new attitude seemed to be the one that suited her best. If she 
raised her arms, she looked like a statue. Her hands were white 
and delicate, as though carved in ivory. He judged her to be 
about eighteen. But who was she, and what had brought her 
there? He could have stood through the long hours of the sunny 
day watching her, so completely bad she charmed him, fasci- 
nated his very senses. 

“Love is fate!” How often had he said that to himself, smil- 
ing the while? Now here his fate had come to him all unexpect- 
edly — this most fair face had found its way to the very depths 
of his heart and nestled there. 

He could not have been standing there long, yet it seemed to 
him that long hours parted him from the life he had known be- 
fore. Presently he reproached himself for his folly. What had 
taken place? He had seen a fair face, that was all — a face tliat 
embodied his dream of loveliness. He had realized his ideal, 
he had suddenly, and without thinking of it, found his fate — 
the figure, the beauty that he had dreamed of all his life. 

Nothing more than that; yet the whole world seemed changed. 
There was a brighter light in the blue skies, a new beauty had 
fallen on the flowers; in his heart was strange, sweet music; 
everything was idealized — glorified. Why? Because he had 
seen the face that had always filled his thoughts. 

It seemed to him that he had been there long hours, when the 
door suddenly opened, and her Grace of Hazlewood entered. 

“Norman,” she said, as though in sudden wonder, “why did 
they show you in here?” 

“I knew they were doing wrong,” he replied. “This is your 
own special sanctum, Philippa?” 

“Yes, it is indeed; still, as you are here, you may stay. I 
want to speak to you about that Richmond dinner. My hus- 
band does not seem to care about it. Shall we give it up?” 

They talked for a few minutes about it, and then the duchess 
said, suddenly: 


94 


WIFE IN- NAME ONLY. 


“What do yon think about my roses, Norman?” 

“ They are wonderful,” he replied, and then, in a low voice, 
he asked, “Philippa, who is that beautiful girl out there among 
your flowers?” 

She did not smile, but a sudden light came into her eyes. 

“ It would be a great kindness not to tell you,” she answered. 
“ You see what comes of trespassing in forbidden places. I did 
not intend you to see that young lady.” 

“Why not?” he asked, abruptly. 

“ The answer to your question would be superfluous,” she re- 
plied. 

“ But, Philippa, tell me at least who she is.” 

“That I cannot do,” she replied, and then the magnificent 
face was lighted with a smile. “Is she your ideal woman, Nor- 
man?” she asked. 

“My dear Philippa,” he answered, gravely, “she is the ideal 
woman herself — neither more nor less.” 

“Found at last!” laughed the duchess. “For all that, Nor- 
man, you must not look at her.” 

“ Why not? Is she married — engaged?” 

“Married? That girl! Why, she has only just left school. 
If you really wish to know who she is I will tell you; but you 
must give me your word not to mention it.” 

“I promise,” he replied. 

He wondered why the beautiful face grew crimson and the 
dark eyes drooped. 

“ She is a poor relative of ours,” said the duchess, “poor, you 
understand — nothing else.” 

“Then she is related to the duke?” he interrogated. 

“ Y^es, distantly; and, after a fashion, we have adopted her. 
When she marries we shall give her a suitable dot. Her mother 
married unfortunately.” 

“ Still, she was married?” said Lord Arleigh. 

“Yes, certainly; but unhappily married. Her daughter, 
however, has received a good education, and now she will re- 
main with us. But, Norman, in this I may trust you, as in 
everything else?” 

“ You my trust me implicitly,” he replied. 

“The duke did not quite like the idea of having her to live 
with us at first — and I do not wish it to be mentioned to him. 
If he speaks of it to you at all, it will be as my caprice. Let it 
pass — do not ask any questions about her; it only annoys her — 
it only annoys him. She is very happy with me. You see,” 
see continued, “ women can keep a secret. She has been liere 
three weeks, yet you have never seen her before, and now it is 
by accident.” 

“But,” said Norman, “what do you intend to do. with her?” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


95 


The duchess took a seat near him, and assumed quite a confi- 
dential air. 

“ I have been for some time looking out for a companion,” 
she said; “Lady Peters really must live at Yerdun Boyal — a 
housekeeper is not. sufficient for that large establishment — it 
requires more than that. She has consented to make it her 
home, and I must have some one to be with me.” 

“ You have the duke,” he put in, wonderingly. 

“ True, and a husband must, perforce, be all that-is adorable; 
still, having been accustomed to a lady-companion, I prefer 
keeping one; and this girl, so beautiful, so pure, so simple, is 
all that I need, or could wish for.” 

“So I should imagine,” he replied. “Will you introduce 
her into society, Philippa?” 

“ I think not; she is a simple child, yet wonderfully clever. 
No, society shall not have her. I will keep her for my own.” 

“ What is her name?” ask4d Lord Arleigh. 

The duchess laughed. 

“Ah, now, man-like, you are growing curious! I shall not 
tell you. Yes, I will; it is the name above all others for an ideal 
— Madaline.” 

“Madaline,” he repeated; “ it is very musical— Madaline. ” 

“It suits her,” said the duchess; “and now, Norman, I must 
go. I have some pressing engagements to-day.” 

‘^You will not introduce me then, Philippa?” 

“No — why should I? You would only disturb the child’s 
dream.” 


CHAPTEK XYH. 

Lord Arleigh could not rest for thinking of the vision he had 
seen; the face of the duchess’ companion haunted him as no 
other face had ever done. He tried hard to forget it, saying to 
himself that it was a fancy, a foolish imagination, a day-dream; 
he tried to believe that in a few days he should have forgot- 
ten it. 

It was quite otherwise. He left Yere House in a fever of 
unrest; he went everywhere he could think of to distract his 
thoughts. But the fair face with its sweet, maidenly exi)ression, 
the tender blue eyes with their ricli poetic depths, the sweet, 
sensitive lips were ever present. Look where he would he saw 
them. He went to the opera, and they seemed to smile at him 
from the stage; he walked home in the starlight — they were 
smiling at him from the stars; he tried to sleep — they haunted 
him ; none had followed him as those eyes did. 


96 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ I think my heart and brain are on fire,” he said to himself. 
“ I will go and look once again at the fair young face; perhaps 
if she smiles at me or speaks to me I shall be cured.” 

He went; it was noon when he reached the Duke of Hazle- 
wood’s mansion. He inquired for the duchess, and was told she 
had gone to Hampton Court. He repeated the words in sur- 
prise. 

“ Hampton Court!” he said. “ Are you quite sure?” 

‘‘Yes, my lord,” was- the footman’s reply. “Her grace has 
gone there, for I heard her talking about the pictures this morn- 
ing.” 

He could hardly imagine the duchess at Hampton Court. He 
felt half inclined to follow, and then he thought that perhaps it 
would be an intrusion; if she had wanted his society, she would 
certainly have asked for it. No, he would not go. He stood 
for a few minutes irresolute, wondering if he could ask whether 
the duchess had taken her young companion with her, and then 
he remembered that he did not even know her name. 

How was the day to pass? Matters were worse than ever. If 
he had seen her, if he could have spoken to her, he might per- 
haps have felt better; as it was, the fever of unrest had deep- 
ened. 

He was to meet the duchess that evening at the French Em- 
bassy; he would tell her she must relax some of her rigor in his 
favor. She was talking to the ambassador when he entered, 
but with a smiling gesture she invited him to her side. 

“I hear that you called to-day,” she said. “ I had quite for- 
gotten to tell you that we were going to Hampton Court.” 

“I could hardly believe it,” he replied. “What took you 
there?” 

“You will wonder when I tell you, Norman,” she replied, 
laughingly. “I have always thought that I have a great capac- 
ity for spoiling people. My fair Madaline, as I have told you, 
is both poet and artist. She begged so hard to see the pictures 
at Hampton Court that I could not refuse her.” 

“I should not think the history of the belles of the court of 
Charles II. would be very useful to her,” he said; and she was 
quick to detect the jealousy in his voice. 

“ Norman, you are half inclined to be cross, I believe,, because 
I did not ask you to go with us.” 

“I should have enjoyed it,- Philippa, very much.” 

“It would not have been prudent,” she observed, looking 
most bewitchingly beautiful in her effort to look matronly and 
wise. 

He said no more; but if her grace had thought of a hundred 
plans for making him think of Madaline, she could not have 
adopted one more to the purpose. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


97 


From the moment Lord Arleigh believed that the young 
duchess intended to forbid all acquaintance with her fair- 
he resolved to see her and to make her like him. 

The day following he went again to the mansion; the duchess 
was at home, and wished to see him, but at that moment she 
was engaged. He was shown into the library, where in a few 
minutes she joined him. 

“ My dear Norman, she said, with a bright smile of greeting, 
“ Yere told me, if you came, to keep you for luncheon; he 
Wyants to see you particularly. The horse that won the Derby, 
he has been told, is for sale, and he wants you to see it with 
him.” 

“ I shall be very pleased,” replied Lord Arleigh. “ You seem 
hurried this morning, Philippa.” 

“Yes; di, contretemps ! Just as I was anticipating a few 
hours with you, the Countess of Farnley came in, with the ter- 
rible announcement that she was here to spend the morning. I 
have to submit to fate, and listen to the account of Clara’s last 
conquests, of the infamous behavior of her maid, of Lord Farn- 
ley’s propensity for indiscreet flirtations. I tell her there is 
safety in number. I have to look kind and sympathetic while I 
am bored to death.” 

“Shall I accompany you and help you to amuse Lady Farn- 

She repeated the words with a little laugh. 

“Amuse Lady Farnley? I never undertake the impossible. 
You might as well ask me to move the monument, it would be 
quite as easy.” 

“ Shall I help her to amuse you, then?” he said. 

“ No, I will not impose on your friendship. Make yourself as 
comfortable as you can, and I will try to hasten her departure.” 

Just as she was going away Lord Arleigh called to her. 

“Philippa!” she turned her beautiful head half impatiently 
to him. 

“What is it, Norman? Quick! The countess will think I 
am lost.” 

“May I go into your pretty rose-garden?” he asked. 

She laughed. 

“What a question! Certainly; you my go just where you 
please.” 

“ She has forgotten her companion,” he said to himself, “or 
she is not about.” 

He went into the morning-room and through the long, open 
French window; there were the lovely roses in bloom, and there 
— oh, kind, blessed fate! — there was his beautiful Madaline, 
seated in the pretty trellised arbor, busily working some flne 


98 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

point-lace, looking herself like the fairest fllowr that ever 
bloomed. 

The young girl looked up at him with a startled glance- shy, 
sweet, hesitating — and then he went up to her. 

“Do not let me disturb you,” he said. “The duchess is en- 
gaged, and gave me permission to wait for her here.” 

She bowed, and he fancied that her white lingers trembled. 

“May I introduce myself to you?” he continued. “I am 
Lord Arleigh.” 

A beautiful blush, exquisite as the hue of the fairest rose, 
spread over her face. She looked at him with a smile. , 

“Lord Arleigh,” she repeated — “I know the name very 
well.” 

“ You know my name very well — how is that?” he asked, in 
surprise. 

“ It is a household word here,” she said; “ I hear it at least a 
hundred times a day.” 

“Do you? I can only hope that you are not tired of it.” 

“No, indeed I am not;” and then she drew back with a sud- 
den hesitation, as though it had just occurred to her that she 
was talking freely to a stranger. 

He saw her embarrassment, and did his best to remove it. 

“How beautiful these roses are!” he said, gently. “The 
duchess is fortunate to have such a little paradise here.” 

“ She ought to be surrounded by everything that is fairest and 
most beautiful on earth,” she declared, “for there is no one like 
her. ” 

“You are fond of her?” he said. 

She forgot all her shyness, and raised her blue eyes to his. 

“Fond of her? I love her better than any one on earth — ex- 
cept, perhaps, my mother. I could never have dreamed of any 
one so fair, so bewitching, so kind as the duchess.” 

“And she seems attached to you,” he said, earnestly. 

“She is very good to me — she is goodness itself;” and the 
blue eyes, with their depth of poetry and passion, first gleamed 
with light, and then filled with tears. 

“ We must be friends,” said Lord Arleigh, “for I, too, love 
the duchess. She has been like a sister to me ever since I can 
remember;” and he drew nearer to the beautiful girl as he spoke. 
“Will you include me among your friends?” he continued. 
“ This is not the first time that I have seen you. I stood watch- 
ing you yesterday; you were among the roses, and I was in the 
morning-room. 1 thought then, and I have thought ever since, 
that I would give anything to be included among your friends.” 

His handsome face flushed as he spoke, his whole soul was in 
his eyes. 

“Will you look upon me as one of your friends?” he repeated, 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


99 


and his voice tv as full of softest music. He saw that even her 
white brow grew crimson. 

“A friend of mine, mj lord?” she exclaimed. “ How can I? 
Surely you know I am not of your rank-— I am not one of the 
class from which you select your friends.” • 

“ What nonsense!” he exclaimed. “If that is your only ob- 
jection, I can soon remove it. I grant that there may be some 
trifling difference. For instance, I may have a title; you — who 
are a thousand times more worthy of one — have none. What of 
that? A title does not make a man. What is the difference be- 
- tween us? Your beauty — nay, do not think me rude or abrupt 
— my heart is in every word that I say to you — your grace 
would ennoble any rank, as your friendship would ennoble any 
man.” 

She looked up at him, and said, gently : 

“I do not think you quite understand.” 

“ Yes, I do,” he declared, eagerly; “I asked the duchess yes- 
terday who you were, and she told me your whole story.” 

It was impossible for him not to see how she shrank with un- 
utterable pain from the words. The point-lace fell on the grass 
at her feet — she covered her face with her hands. 

“Did she? Oh, Lord Arleigh, it was cruel to tell it!” 

“It was not cruel to tell me,” he returned. “She would not 
tell any one else, I am quite sure. But she saw that I was 
really anxious — that I must know it — that it was not from curi- 
osity I asked.” 

“ Not from curiosity !” she repeated, still hiding her burning 
face with her hands. 

“No, it was from a very different motive.” And then he 
paused abruptly. What was he going to say? How far had he 
already left all conventionality behind? He stopped just in 
time, and then continued, gravely: “The Duchess of Hazle- 
wood and myself are such true and tried friends that w'e never 
think of keeping any secrets from each other. We have been, 
as I told you before, brother and sister all our lives — it was only 
natural that she should tell me about you.” 

“And, having heard my story, you ask me to be one of your 
friends?” she said, slowly. There were pain and pathos in her 
voice as she spoke. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “having heard it all, 1 desire nothing on 
earth so much as to win your friendship.” 

“My mother?” she murmured. 

“Yes — your mother’s unfortunate marriage, and all that came 
of it. I can repeat the story.” 

“Oh, no!” she interrupted. “I do not wish to hear it. 
You know it, and you would still be my friend?” 

“Answer me one question,” he said, gently. “Is this sad 


100 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

story the result of any fault of yours? Are you in any way to 
blame for it?” 

“No; not in the least. Still, Lord Arleigh, although I do not 
share the fault, I share the disgrace — nothing can avert that 
from me.” 

“ Nothing of the kind,” he opposed; “disgrace and yourself 
are as incompatible as pitch and a dove’s wing.” 

“But,” she continued, wonderingly, “do you quite under- 
stand?” 

“Yes; the duchess told me the whole story. I understand 
it, and am truly grieved for you; I know the duke’s share in 
it and all.” 

He saw her face grow pale even to the lips. 

“And yet you would be my friend — you whom people call 
proud — you whose very name is history! I cannot believe it. 
Lord Arleigh.” 

There was a wistful look in her eyes, as though she would 
fain believe that it were true, yet that she was compelled to 
plead even against herself. 

“We cannot account for likes or dislikes,” he said; “I al- 
ways look upon them as nature’s guidance as to whom wo 
should love, and whom we should avoid. The moment I saw 
you I — liked you. I went home, and thought about you all 
day long.” 

“Did you?” she asked, wonderingly. “How very strange!” 

“It does not seem strange to me,” he observed. “Before 
I had looked at you three minutes I felt as though I had known 
you all my life. How long have we been talking here? Ten 
minutes, perhaps — yet I feel as though already there is some- 
thing that has cut us off from the rest of the world, and 
left us alone together. There is no accounting for such strange 
feelings as these.” 

“No,” she replied, dreamily, “I do not think there is.” 

“Perhaps,” he continued, “I may have been fanciful all my 
life; but years ago, when I was a boy at school, I pictured to 
myself a heroine such as I thought I should love when I 
came to be a man.” 

She had forgotten her sweet, half sad shyness, and sat with 
a faint flush on lier face, her lips parted, her blue eyes fixed 
on his. 

“A heroine of my own creation,” he went on; “and I gave 
her an ideal face — lilies and roses blended, rose-leaf lips, a 
white brow, eyes the color of hyacinths, and hair of pale gold.” 

“ That is a pretty picture,” she said, all unconscious that 
it was her own portrait he had sketched. 

His eyes softened and gleamed at the naivete of the words. 

“I am glad you think so. Then my heroine had, in my 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


101 


fancy, a mind and sonl that suited her face — pure, original, 
half sad, wholly sweet, full of poetry.” 

She smiled as though charmed with the picture. 

“ Then I grew to be a youth, and then to be a man,” he con- 
tinued. “I looked everywhere for my ideal among all the fair 
women I knew, I looked in courts and palaces, I looked in coun- 
try houses, but I could not find her. I looked at home and 
abroad, I looked at all times and all seasons, but I could not 
find her.” 

He saw a shadow come over the sweet, pure face as though 
she felt sorry for him. • 

“ So time passed, and I began to think that I should never 
find my ideal, that I must give her up, when one day, quite un- 
expectedly, I saw her.” 

There was a gleam ^of sympathy in the blue eyes. 

“ I found her at last,” he continued. “It "was one bright June 
morning; she was sitting out among the roses, ten thousand 
times fairer and sweeter than they.” 

She looked at him with a startled glance; not the faintest idea 
had occurred to her that he was speaking of her. 

“Do you understand me?” he asked. 

“I — I am frightened. Lord Arleigh.” 

“ Nay, why should you fear? What is there to fear? It is 
true. The moment I saw you sitting here I knew that you were 
my ideal, found at last.” 

“But,” she said, with the simple wonder of a child. “ I am 
not like the portrait you sketched.” 

“You are unlike it only because you are a hundred times 
fairer,” he replied; “ that is why I inquired about you — why I 
asked so many questions. It was because you were to me a 
dream realized. So it came about that I heard your true his- 
tory. Now will you be my friend?” 

“If you still wish it. Lord Arleigh, yes; but, if you repent of 
having asked me, and should ever feel ashamed of our friend- 
ship, remember that I shall not reproach you for giving me 
up.” 

“ Giving you up?” cried Lord Arleigh. “Ah, Madaline — let 
me call you Madaline, the name is so sweet — I shall never give 
you up! When a man has been for many years looking for some 
one to fill his highest and brightest dreams, he knows how to 
appreciate that some one when found.” 

“ It seems all so strange,” she said, musingly. 

“ Nay, why strange? You have read that sweetest and saddest 
of all love stories — ‘ Borneo and Juliet?’ Did Juliet think it 
strange that, so soon after seeing her, Romeo should be willing 
to give his life for her?” 

“No, it did not seem strange to them,” she replied, with a 


102 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


smile; “ but it is different with us. This is the nineteenth cen- 
tury, and there are no Juliets/^ 

“There are plenty of Romeos, though,” he remarked, laugh- 
ingly. “ The sweetest dreams in my life are the biiefest. Will 
you pluck one of those roses for me and give it to me, saying, 
‘ I promise to be your friend?’ ” 

“ You make me do things against my will,” she said; but she 
plucked a rose, and held it toward him in her hand. “ I promise 
to be your friend,” she said, gently. 

Lord Arleigh kissed the rose. As he did so their eyes met; 
and it wonld have been hard to tell which blushed the more 
deeply. After that, meetings between them became more fre- 
quent. Lord Arleigh made seeing her the one great study of his 
life — and the result was what might be imagined. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The yacht of Mr. Conyers, one of the richest commoners in 
England — a yacht fitted as surely no yacht ever before had been 
fitted — was for sale. He was a wealthy man, but to keep that 
sea-palace afloat was beyond his means. The Duchess of Hazle- 
wood was sole mistress of a large fortune in her own right; the 
duke had made most magnificent settlements upon her. She 
had a large sum of money at her command; and the idea sud- 
denly occurred to her to purchase Mr. Conyers’ yacht unknown 
to her husband and present him with it. He was fond of yacht- 
ing — it was his favorite amusement. She herself was a wretched 
sailor, and would not be. able to accompany him; but that would 
not matter. It was not of her own pleasure that the Duchess of 
Hazlewood was thinking, while the old strange brooding smile 
lingered on her beautiful face and deepened on her perfect 
lips. 

“ It would be the very thing,” she said to herself, “ it would 
afford to me the opportunity I am seeking — nothing could be 
better.” 

She purchased the yacht and presented it to the duke, -her 
husband. His pleasure and astonishment w’^ere unbounded. 
She was, as a rule, so undemonstrative that he could not thank 
her sufficiently for what seemed to him her great interest in his 
favorite pursuit. 

“ The only drawback to the splendid gift, Philippa, is that 
you can never enjoy it; it will take me away from you.” 

“Yes, I do indeed deplore that I am a wretched sailor, for I 
can imagine nothing pleasanter than life on board such a yacht 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


103 


as that. But, while you are cruising about, Vere, I shall go to 
Verdun Royal and take Madaline with me; then I shall go to 
Vere Court — make a kind of royal progress, set everything 
straight and redress all wrongs, hold a court at each establish- 
ment. 1 shall enjoy that more than yachting.*' 

“But I shall miss you so much, Philippa,” said the young 
husband, 

“ \Ve liave the remainder of our lives to spend together,” she 
rejoined; “if you are afraid of missing me too much, you had 
better get rid of the yacht.” 

But he would not hpar of that — he was delighted with the 
beautiful and valuable present. The yacht was christened 
■“ Queen Philippa”; and it was decided that, when the end of 
the season had come, the duke should take his beautiful wife to 
Verdun Royal, and, after having installed her there, should go 
at once to sea. He had invited a party of friends— all yachtsmen 
like himself — and they had agreed to take “ Queen Philippa ” 
to the Mediterranean, there to cruise during the autumn months. 

As it was settled so it was carried out; before the week had 
ended the duke, duchess, and Madeline were all at Verdun 
Royal. Perhaps the proud young wife had never realized before 
Low completely her liusband loved her. This temporary part- 
ing was to him a real pain. 

A few days before it took place he began to look pale and ill. 
She saw that he could not eat, that he did not sleep or rest. Her 
heart was touched by his simple fidelity, his passionate love, 
although the one fell purpose of her life remained unchanged. 

“ If you dislike going, Vere,” she said to him one day, “do 
not go — stay at Verdun Royal.” 

“ The world would laugh if I did that, Philippa,” he returned; 
■“it would guess at once what was the reason, because every one 
knows how dearly I love you. We should be called Darby and 
Joan.*' 

“ No one would ever dare to call me Joan,’*" she said, “ for I 
have nothing of Joan in me.” 

The duke sighed — perhaps he thought that it would be all the 
better if she had; but, fancying there was something, after all, 
slightly contemptuous in her manner, as though she, thought it 
unmanly in him to repine about leaving her, he said no more. 

One warm, brilliant day he took leave of her, and she was left 
to work out her purpose. . She never forgot the day of his de- 
parture — it was one of those hot days when the summer skies 
seemed to be half obscured by a copper-colored haze, when the 
green leaves hang languidly, and the birds seek the coolest 
shade, when the flowers droop witli thirst, and never a breath of 
air stir their blossoms, when there is no picture so refreshing to 
the senses as that of a cool deep pool in the recesses of a wood. 


104 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


She stood at the grand entrance, watching him depart, and she 
knew that with all her beauty, her grace, her talent, her sover- 
eignty, no one had ever loved her as this man did. Then, after 
he was gone, she stood still on the broad stone terrace, with that 
strange smile on her face, which seemed to mar while it deep- 
ened her beauty. 

“ It will be a full revenge,” she said to herself. “ There could 
be no fuller. But what shall I do when it is all known?” 

She was not one to flinch from the course of action she had 
marked out for herself, nor from the consequences of that course; 
but she shuddered even in the heat, as she thought what her 
life would be when her vengeance was taken. 

“ He will never forgive me,” she said, “ he will look upon me 
as the wickedest of women. It does not matter; he should not 
have exasperated me by slighting me.” 

Then the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together — great 
purple masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky, a lurid 
light overspread the heavens, the dense oppressive silence was 
broken by a distant peal of thunder, great rain-drops fell — 
fierce, heavy drops. The trees seemed to stretch out their leaves 
to drink in the moisture, the parched flowers welcomed the 
downpour; and still the Duchess of Hazlewood stood out on the 
terrace, so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she never 
heeded the rain. 

Madaline hastened out to her with a shawl. 

“ Dear duchess,” she cried, “it is raining; and you are so ab- 
sorbed in thought that you do not notice it.” 

She laughed a strange, weird laugh, and raised her beautiful 
face with its expression of gloom. 

“I did not notice it, Madaline,” she said; “but there is no 
need for anxiety about me,” she added, proudly. 

They re entered the house together. Madaline believed that 
the duchess was thinking of and grieving over the departure of 
the duke. Lady Peters thought the same. They both did their 
best to comfort her — to amuse her and distract her thoughts. 
But the absent expression did not die from her dark eyes. 
When they had talked to her some little time she took up the 
“ Lady of Lyons.” 

“How much you admire that play/’ said Madaline; “I see 
you reading it so often. ” 

“ I have a fancy for it,” returned the duchess; “it suits my 
taste. And I admire the language very much.” 

“Yet it is a cruel story,” observed Madaline; “the noblest 
character in it is Pauline.''' 

“ She was very proud; and pride, I suppose, must suffer,” 
said the duchess, carelessly. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


105 


** She was not too proud, after all, to love a noble man, when 
she once recognized him, duchess.” 

“She learned to love the prince — she would never have loved 
the gardener,” remarked Philippa; “it was a terrible ven- 
geance.” 

“Ido not like stories of vengeance,” said Madaline. “After 
all, though, I love the Claude of the story, and find much true 
nobility in him — much to admire. When reading the play I am 
tempted all the time to ask myself. How could he do it? It was 
an unmanly act.” 

There was a strange light in the dark eyes, a quiver on the 
scarlet lips, as Philippa said: 

“Do you think so? Suppose some one had offended you as 
Pauline offended Claude — laughing at the love offered, scorned, 
mocked, despised you — and that such vengeance as his lay in 
your power; would you not take it?” 

The sweet face flushed. 

“No, I would rather die,” Madaline replied, quickly. 

“I would take it, and glory in it,” said the duchess, firmly. 
“ If I were wounded, insulted, and slighted as Claude was, I 
would take the cruelest revenge that I could.” 

Madaline took one of the jeweled, hands in her own and 
kissed it. 

“I should never be afraid of you,” she said; “you can never 
hurt any one. Your vengeance would end in the bestowal of a 
favor.” 

“Do you think so highly of me, Madaline?” asked Philippa, 
sadly. 

“ Think highly of you! Why, you would laugh if you knew 
how I loved you — how l adore you. If all the world were to 
swear to me that you could do the least thing wrong, I should 
not believe them.” 

“Poor child!” said the duchess, sadly. 

“ Why do you call me ‘poor child?’ ” she asked, laughingly. 

“Because you have such implicit faith, and are sure to be 
so cruelly disappointed.” 

“I would rather have such implicit faith, and bear the disap- 
pointment, than be without both,” said Madaline. 


CHAPTEK XIX. 

On the day of his departure the duke had said to his wife: 

“I have invited Norman to spend a few weeks with you; have 
some pleasant people to meet him. He tells me he shall not go 
to Scotland this year.” 


106 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“I will ask Miss Bjrton and Lady Sheldon,” Philippa had 
promised. 

Only two ladiesi” the dnke had laughed. “He will want 
some one to smoke his cigar with.” 

“I will trust to some happy inspiration at the time, then,” 
she had replied; and they had not mentioned the matter again. 

Early in August Lord Arleigh, wrote that if it were conven- 
ient he should prefer paying his promised visit at once. He 
concluded his letter by saying: 

“My dear Philippa, your kind, good husband has said some- 
thing to me about meeting a pleasant party. I should so much 
prefer one of my old style visits — no parties, no ceremonies. I 
want to see you and Verdun Royal, not a crowd of strange faces. 
Lady Peters is chaperon^ if you have any lingering doubt about 
the ‘proprieties.’” 

So it was agreed that he should come alone, and later on, if 
the duchess cared to invite more friends, she could do so. 

The fact was that Lord Arleigh wanted time for his wooing. 
He had found that he could not live without Madaline. He had 
thought most carefully about everything, and had decided on 
asking her to be his wife. True, there was the drawback of her 
parentage — but that was not grievous, not so terrible. Of 
course, if she had been lowly-born — descended from the dregs 
of the people, or the daughter of a criminal — he would have 
trampled his love under foot. He v/ould have said to him- 
self: Noblesse oblige^'''' and rather than tarnish the honor of his 
family, he would have given her up. 

This was not needed. Related to the Duke of Hazlewood, 
there could not be anything wrong. The duchess had told him 
distinctly that Madaline’s mother had married beneath her, and 
that the whole family on that account had completely ignored 
her. He did not remember that the duchess had told him so in 
as many words, but he was decidedly of the opinion that Mada- 
line’s mother was a cousin of the duke’s, and that she had mar- 
ried a drawing-master, who had afterward turned out wild and 
profligate. The drawing-master was dead. His darling Mada- 
line had good blood in her veins —was descended from an an- 
cient and noble family. That she had neither fortune nor posi- 
tion was immaterial to him. He had understood from the duch- 
ess that the mother of his fair young love lived in quiet retire- 
ment. He could not remember in what words all this had been 
told to him, but this was the impression that was on his mind. 
So he had determined on making Madaline his wife if he could 
but win her consent. The only thing to be feared was her own 
unwillingness. She was fair and fragile, but she had a wonder- 
ful strength of will. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


107 


He had thought it all over. He remembered well what the 
duchess had said about the duke’s not caring to hear the matter 
mentioned. Lord Arleigh could understand that, with all his 
gentleness, Hazlewood was a proud man, and that, if there had 
been a mei^alliance in his family, he would be the last to wish it 
discussed. Still Lord Arleigh knew that he would approve of 
the marriage. It was plain, however, that it would be belter 
for it to take place while he was away from England, and then 
it would not, could not in any way compromise him. A quiet 
marriage would not attract attention. 

If he could only win Madaline’s consent. She had been so 
unwilling to promise him her friendship, and then so unwilling 
to hear that he loved her. He could form no idea how she 
would receive the offer of marriage that be intended to make 
her. 

That was why he wished to go alone. He would have time 
and opportunity then. As for Philippa, he did not fear any real 
objection from her; if she once believed or thought that his 
heart was fixed on marrying Madaline, he was sure she would 
help him. 

Marry Madaline he must — life was nothing to him without 
her. He had laughed at the fever called love. He knew now 
how completely love had mastered him. He could think of 
nothing but Madaline. 

He went down to Verdun Royal, heart and soul so completely 
wrapped in Madaline that he hardly remembered Phihppa — 
hardly remembered that he was going as her guest; he was going 
to woo Madaline — fair, sweet Madaline — to ask her to be his 
wife, to try to win her for his own. 

It was afternoon when he reached Verdun Royal. The glory 
of summer was over the earth. He laughed at himself, for he 
was nervous and timid; he longed to see Madaline, yet trembled 
at the thought of meeting her. 

“So this is love?” said Lord Arleigh to himself, with a smile. 
“ I used to wonder why it made men cowards, and what there 
was to fear; I can understand it now.” 

Then he saw the gray towers and turrets of Verdun Royal 
rising from the trees; he thought of his childish visits to the 
house, and how his mother taught him to call the child Phil- 
ippa his little wife. Who would have thought in those days that 
Philippa would live to be a duchess, and that he should so 
wildly worship, so madly love a fairer, younger face? 

He was made welcome at Verdun Royal. Lady Peters re- 
ceived him as though he were her own son. Then the duchess 
entered, with a glad light in her eyes, and a smile that was half 
wistful. She greeted him warmly ; she was pleased to see him 
— pleased to welcome him; the whole house was at his service, 


108 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


and eVferjtliing in it. Re had never seen the duchess look bet- 
ter; she wore her favorite colors, amber and white. 

“I have attended to your wishes, Norman,” she said; “you 
must not blame me if you are dull. I have asked no one to 
meet you.” 

“There is no fear of my ever being dull here, Philippa,” he 
returned. “You forget that I am almost as much at home as 
you are yourself. I can remember when I looked upon coming 
to Verdun Royal as coming home.” 

A shadow of pain crossed her face at this reference to those 
early, happy days. Then he summoned up courage, and said to 
her: 

“Where is your fair companion, Philippa?” 

“She is somewhere about the grounds,” replied the duchess. 
“I can never persuade her to remain in-doors unless she has 
something to do. So you have not forgotten her?” added the 
duchess, after a short pause. 

“I have not forgotten her, Philippa. I shall have something 
very important to say to you about her before I go away again.” 

She gave no sign that she understood him, but began to talk 
to him on a number of indifferent matters — the warmth of the 
weather, his journey down, the last news from her husband — 
and he answered her somewhat impatiently. His thoughts were 
with Madaline. 

At last the signal of release came. 

“We need not play at ’company,* Norman,” said the duchess. 
“ As you say, Verdun Royal has always been like home to you. 
Continue to make it so. We dine at eight — it is now nearly 
five. You will find plenty to amuse yourself with. Whenever 
you wish for my society, you will find me in the drawing-room 
or my boudoir, 

He murmured some faint word of thanks, thinking to himself 
how considerate she was, and that she guessed he wanted to 
find Madaline. With a smile on her face, she turned to him as 
she was quitting the room. 

“ Vere seemed very uneasy, when he was going away, lest you 
should not feel at liberty to smoke when you liked,’* she said. 
“Pray do not let the fact of his absence prevent you from en- 
joying a cigar whenever you feel inclined for one.” 

“A thousand thanks, Philippa,” returned Lord Arleigh, in- 
wardly hoping that Madaline would give him scant time for the 
enjoyment of cigars. 

Then he went across the lawn, wondering how she would look, 
where he should find her, and what she would say to him when 
she saw him. Once or twice he fancied he saw the glimmer of 
a white dress between the trees. He wondered if she felt shy at 
seeing him, as he did at seeing her. Then suddenly — it was as 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


109 


thongli a bright light had fallen from the skies — he came upon 
her standing under a great linden tree. 

“ Madaline!” he said, gently. And she came to him with out- 
stretched hands. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Later on that afternoon the heat seemed to have increased, 
not lessened, and the ladies had declared even the cool, shaded 
drawing-room, with its sweet scents and mellowed light, to be 
too warm; so they had gone out on to the lawn, where a sweet 
western wind was blowing. Lady Peters had taken with her a 
book, which she made some pretence of reading, but over which 
her eyes closed in most suspicious fashion. The duchess, too, 
had a" book, but she made no pretense of opening it — her beau- 
tiful face had a restless, half-wistful expression. They had 
quitted the drawing-room all together, but Madaline had gone 
to gather some peaches. The duchess liked them freshly 
gathered, and Madaline knew no delight so keen as that of 
giving her pleasure. 

When she had been gone some few minutes. Lord Arleigh 
asked where she was, and the duchess owned, laughingly, to 
her fondness for ripe, sun-kissed peaches. 

“Madaline always contrives to find the very best forme,” she 
said. “She is gone to look for some now.” 

“I will go and help her,” said Lord Arleigh, looking at 
Philippa’s face. He thought the fair cheeks themselves not un- 
like peaches, wdth their soft, sweet, vivid coloring. 

She smiled to herself with bitter scorn as he went away. 

“ It works well,” she said; “ but it is his own fault— Heaven 
know^s, his own fault.” 

An hour afterward Lady Peters said to her, in a very solemn 
tone of voice: 

“Philippa, my dear, it may not be my duty to speak, but I 
cannot help asking you if you notice anything?” 

“No, nothing at this minute.’,’ 

But Lady Peters shook her head with deepest gravity. 

“Do you not notice the great attention that Lord Arleigh 
pays your beautiful young companion?” 

“ Y^es, I have noticed it,” said the duchess— -and all her efforts 
did not prevent a burning, passionate flush rising to her face. 

“ May I ask you what you think of it, rny dear?” 

“ I tliink nothing of it. If Lord Arleigh chooses to fall in 
love with her, he may. I warned him when she first came to 
live with me — I kept her most carefully out of his sight; and 


110 


WIFE m NAME ONLY. 


then, when I could no longer conveniently do so, I told him 
that he must not fall in love with her. I told him of her birth, 
antecedents, misfortunes — everythiug connected with her. Ilis 
own mother or sister could not have warned him more sensibly.’^ 

“And what was the result?’^ asked Lady Peters, gravely. 

“Just what one might have expected from a man,’' laughed 
the duchess. “ Warn them against any particular thing, and it 
immediately possesses a deep attraction for them. The result w^as 
that he said she was his ideal, fairly, fully, and perfectly realized. 
I, of course, could say no more." 

‘^But," cried Lady Peters, aghast, “you do not think it 
probable that he will marry her?” 

“I cannot tell. He is a man of honor. He would not make 
love to her without intending to marry her.” 

“But there is not a better family in England than the Arleighs 
of Beechgrove, Philippa. It would be terrible for him — such a 
mesalliance; surely he will never dream of it.” 

“She is beautiful, graceful, gifted, and good,” .was the re- 
joinder. “ But it is useless for us to argue about the matter. 
He has said nothing about marrying her; he has only called her 
his ideal.” 

“ I cannot understand it,” said poor Lady Peters. “It seems 
strange to me.” 

She would have thought it stranger still if she had followed 
them and heard what Lord Arleigh w^as saying. 

He had followed Madaline to the southern wall, whereon the 
luscious peaches and apricots grew. He found her, as the 
duchess had intimated, busily engaged in choosing the ripest 
and best. He thought he had never seen a fairer picture than 
this golden-haired girl standing by the green leaves and rich 
fruit. He thought of Tennyson’s “ Gardener’s daughter.” 

“One arm aloft 

Gowned in pure white thathtted to the shape — 

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 

The full day dwelion her brows and sunned 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom. 

And doubled his own warmth against her lips. 

And on the beauteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade. 

She stood, a sight to make an old man young.” 

He repeated the lines as he stood w^atching her, and then he 
went nearer and called: 

“Madaline!” 

Could ho doubt that she loved him? Her fair face flushed 
deepest crimson; but, instead of turning to him, she moved hr' 1 
coyly, half shyly away. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Ill 


“How quick you are,” he said, “to seize every opportunity 
of evadinf^ me! Do you think you can escspe me, Madaline? 
Do you think my love is so weak, so faint, so feeble, that it can 
be pushed aside lightly by your will? Do you think that, if 
you tried to get to the other end of the world, you could escape 
me?” 

Half blushing, half laughing, trembling, yet with a happy 
light in her blue eyes, she said: 

“I think you are more terrible than any one I know.” 

“I am glad that you are growing frightened, and are willing 
to own that you have a master — that is as it should be. I want 
to talk to you, Madaline. You evade me lest you should be 
compelled to speak to me; you lower those beautiful eyes of 
yours, lest I should be made happy by looking into them. If 
you find it possible to avoid my presence, to run away from me, 
you do. I am sure to woo you, to win you, to make you my 
sweet, dear wife — to make you happier, I hope, than any wo- 
man has ever been before — and you try to evade me, fair, sweet, 
cruel Madaline!” 

“I am afraid of you. Lord Arleigh,” she said, little dreaming 
how much the naive confessjion implied. 

“Afraid of me! That is because you see that I am quite de- 
termined to win you. I can easily teach you how to forget all 
fear.” 

“ Can you?” she asked, doubtfully. 

.“Yes, I can, indeed, Madaline. Deposit those peaches in 
their green leaves on the ground. Now place both your hands 
in mine.” * 

She quietly obeyed the first half of his request as though she 
were a child, and then she paused. The sweet face crimsoned 
again; he took her hands in his. 

“You must be obedient,” he said. “Now look at me.” 

Hut the white lids drooped over the happy eyes. 

“Look at me, Madaline,” he repeated, “and say, ‘Norman, I 
do love you. I will forget ail the nonsense I have talked about 
inequality of position, and will be your wife.* ” 

“In justice to yourself I cannot say it.” 

He felt the little hands tremble in his grasp, and he released 
them with a kiss. 

“You will be compelled to say it some day, darling. You 
might as well try now. If I cannot win you for my wife, I will 
have no wife, Madaline. Ah, now you are sorry you have vexed 
me! 

“ ‘ And so it was — half sly, half shy; 

You would and would not, little one, 

Although I pleaded tenderly 
And you and I were all alone.* 


112 


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Why are you so hard, Madaline? I am sure you like me a lit- 
tle; you dare not raise your eyes to mine and say, ‘I do not love 
you, Norman.’ ” 

“No,” she confessed, “ I dare not. But there is love and love; 
the lowest love is all self, the highest is all sacrifice. I like the 
highest.” 

And then her eyes fell on the peaches, and she gave a little 
cry of alarm. 

“ What will the duchess say?” she cried. “ Oh, Lord Arleigh, 
let me go.” 

“Give me one kind word, then.” 

“ What am I to say? Oh, do let me go!” 

“ Say, ‘ I like you, Norman.’ ” 

“I like you, Norman,” she said; and, taking up the peaches, 
she hastened away. Yet, with her flushed face and the glad 
light in her happy eyes, she did not dare to present herself at 
once before the duchess and Lady Peters. 


CHAPTER XXL 

Was tliere some strange, magnetic attraction between Lord 
Arleigh and Madaline, or could it be that the valety knowing or 
guessing the state of his master’s affections, gave what he no 
doubt considered a timely hint? Something of the kind must 
have happened, for Madaline, unable to sleep, unable to rest, 
had risen in the early morning, while the dew was on the grass, 
and had gone out into the shade of the woods. The August sun 
shone brightly, a soft wind fanned her cheeks. 

Madaline looked round before she entered the woods. The 
square turrets of Verdun Royal rose high above the trees. They 
were tall and massive, with great umbrageous boughs and mas- 
sive, rugged trunks, the boughs almost reaching down to the 
long, thick grass. A little brook went singing through the 
woods — a brook of clear, rippling water. Madaline sat down 
by the brook-side. Her head ached for want of sleep, her heart 
was stirred by a hundred varied emotions. 

Did she love him? Why ask herself the question? She did 
love him — she trembled to think how much. It was that very 
love which made her hesitate. She hardly dared to think of 
him. In her great humility she overlooked entirely the fact of 
her own great personal loveliness, her rare grace and gifts. She 
could only wonder what there was in her that could attract 
him. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


113 


He was a descendant of one of the oldest families in England 
— he had a title, he was wealthy, clever, he had every great and 
good gift — yet he loved her; he stooped from his exalted posi- 
tion to love her, and she, for his own sake, wished to refuse his 
love. But she found it difficult. 

She sat down by the brook-side, and, perhaps for the first time 
in her gentle life, a feeling of dissatisfaction rose within her; yet 
it was not so much that as a longing that she could be different 
from w hat she was — a wish that she had been nobly born, en- 
dowed with some great gift that would have brought her nearer 
to him. How haj^py she would have been then — how proud to 
love him — how glad to devote her sweet young life to him! At 
present it w^as different; the most precious thing that she could 
give him — which was her love — would be most prejudicial to 
him. And just as that thought came to her, causing the blue 
eyes to fill with tears, she saw him standing before her. 

She was not surprised; he was so completely part and parcel 
of her thoughts and her life that she would never have felt sur- 
prised at seeing him. He. came up to her quietly. 

“My darling Madaline, your face is pale, and there are tears 
in your eyes. What is the matter? What has brought you out 
here when you ought to be in-doors? What is the trouble that 
has taken away the roses and put lilies in their place?” 

“I have no trouble. Lord Arleigh,” she replied. “I came 
here only to think.” 

“To think of what, sweet?” 

Her face flushed. 

“ I cannot tell you,” she answered. “ You cannot expect that 
I should tell you everything.” 

“You tell me nothing, Madaline. A few words from you 
would make me the happiest man in the world, yet you will not 
speak them,” 

Then all the assumed lightness and carelessness died from his 
manner. He came nearer to her; her* eyes drooped before the 
fire of his. 

“Madaline, my love, let me plead to you,” he said, “for the 
gift of your love. Give me that, and I shall be content. You 
think I am proud,” he continued; “lam not one-half so proud, 
sw^eet, as you. You refuse to love me — why? Because of your 
pride. You have some foolish notions that the difference in our 
positions should part us. You are quite wrong — love knows no 
such difference.” 

“But the world does,” she interrupted. 

“ The w’orld!” he repeated, with contempt. “ Thank Heaven 
it is not my master! What matters what the world says?” 

‘ ‘ You owe more to the name and honor of your family than 
to the world,” she said. 


114 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“Of that,” he observed, “you must allow me to be the best 
judge. ” 

She bowed submissively. 

“ The dearest thing in life to me is the honor of my name, the 
honor of my race,” said Lord Arleigh. “It has never been tar- 
nished, and I pray Heaven that no stain may ever rest upon it. 
I will be frank with you, Madaline, as you are with me, though 
I love you so dearly that my very life is bound up in yours. I 
would not ask you to be my wife if I thought that in doing so I 
was bringing a shadow of dishonor on my race — if I thought 
that I was in even ever so slight a degree tarnishing my name; 
but I do not think so. I speak to you frankly. 1 know the 
story of your misfortunes, and, knowing it, do not deem it suf- 
ficient to part us. Listen and believe me, Madaline — if I stood 
with you before the altar, with your hand in mine, and the sol- 
emn words of the marriage service on my lips, and anything 
even then came to my knowledge which I thought prejudicial to 
the fame and honor of my race, I should without hesitation ask 
you to release me. Do you believe me?” 

“Yes,” she replied, slowly, “I believe you.” 

“ Then why not trust me fully? I know your story — it is an 
old story after all. I know it by heart; I am the best judge of 
it. I have weighed it most carefully; it has not been a lightly- 
considered matter with me at all, and, after thinking it well 
over, I have come to the conclusion that it is not sufficient to 
part us. You see, sweet, that you may implicitly believe me. 
I have no false gloss of compliments. Frankly, as you yourself 
would do, I admit the drawback; but, unlike you, I affirm that 
it does not matter.” 

“But would you always think so? The time might come 
when the remembrance of my father’s ” 

“Hush!” he said, gently. “The matter must never be dis- 
cussed between us. I tell you frankly that I should not care 
for the whole world to know your story. I know it — the duke 
and duchess know it. There is no need for it to be known to 
others; and, believe me, Madaline, it will never be and need 
never be known — we may keep it out of sight. It is not likely 
that I shall ever repent, for it will never be of any more import- 
ance to me than it is now.” 

He paused abruptly, for her blue eyes were looking wistfully 
at him. 

“What is it, Madaline?” he asked, gently. 

“I wish you would let me tell you ail about it — how my 
mother, so gentle and good, came to marry my father, and how 
he fell — how he was tempted and fell. May I tell you. Lord 
Arleigh?” 

“No,” he replied, after a short pause, “I would rather not 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


115 


hear it. The duchess has told me all I care to know. It will be 
better, believe me, for the whole story to die away. If I had 
wished to hear it, I should have asked you to tell it me.” 

“It would make me happier,” she said; “I should know then 
that there was no mistake.” 

“ There is no mistake, my darling — the duchess has told me; 
and it is not likely that she has made a mistake, is it?” 

“No. She knows the whole story from beginning to end. If 
she has told you, you know all.” 

“Certainly I do; and, knowing all, I have come here to beg 
you to make me hapj^y, to honor me with your love, to be my 
wife. Ah, Madaline, do not let your pride part us!” 

He saw that she trembled and hesitated. 

“ Only imagine what life must be for us, Madaline, if we part. 
You would perhaps go on living with the duchess all your life — 
for, in spite of your coyness and your fear, I believe you love 
me so well, darling, that, unless you marry me, you will marry 
no one — you would drag on a weary, tried, sad, unhappy exist- 
ence, that would not have in it one gleam of comfort.” 

“It is true,” she said, slowly. 

“ Of course it is true. And what would become of me? The 
sun would have no more brightness for me; the world would be 
as a desert; the light would die from my life. Oh, Madaline, 
make me happy by loving me!” 

“I do love you,” she said, unguardedly. 

“Then why not be my wife?” 

She drew back trembling, her face pale as death. 

“Why not be my wife?” he repeated. 

“ It is for your own sake,” she said. “ Can you not see? Do 
you not understand?” 

“For my sake. Then I shall treat you as a vanquished king- 
dom — I shall take possession of you, my darling, my love!” 

Bending down, he kissed her face — and this time she made no 
resistance to his sovereign will. 

“Now,” said Lord Arleigh, triumphantly, “you are my very 
own, nothing can separate us — that kiss seals our betrothal; you 
must forget all doubts, all fears, all hesitation, and only say to 
yourself that you are mine — all mine. Will you be happy, 
Madaline?” 

She raised her eyes to his, her face bedewed with happy tears. 

“I should be most ungrateful if I were not happy,” she re- 
plied; “you are so good to me. Lord Arleigh.” 

“You must not call me ‘Lord Arleigh ’ — say ‘Norman.’ ” 

“Norman,” she repeated, “ you are so good to me.” 

“ I love you so well, sweet,” he returned. 

The happy eyes were raised to his face. 

“ Will you tell me,” she asked, “ why you love me, Norman? 


116 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


I cannot think why it is. I wonder about it every day. You 
see girls a thousand times better suited to you than I am. Why 
do you love me so?” 

“What a question to answer, sweet! How can I tell why I 
love you? I cannot help it; my soul is attracted to your soul, 
my heart to your heart, Madaline. I shall be unwilling to leave 
you again; 'when I go away from Verdun Eoyal, I shall want to 
take my wife with me.” 

She looked at him in alarm. 

“I am quite serious,” he continued. “You are so sensitive, 
so full of hesitation, that, if I leave you, you will come to the 
conclusion that you have done wrong, and will write me a pa- 
thetic little letter, and go away.” 

“No, I shall not do that,” she observed. 

“I shall not give you a chance, my own; I shall neither rest 
myself nor let any one else rest until you are my wife. I will 
not distress you now by talking about it. I shall go to the 
duchess to-day, and tell her that you have relented in my favor 
at last; then you will let us decide for you, Madaline, will you 
not?” 

“ Yes,” she replied, with a smile; “it would be useless for me 
to rebel.” 

“You have made some very fatal admissions,” he said, laugh- 
ingly. “ You have owned that you love me; after that, denial, 
resistance, coyness, shyness, nothing will avail. Oh, Madaline, 
I shall always love this spot whe*re I won you! I will have a 
picture of this brook-side painted some day!^ We must go back 
to the house now; but, before we go, make me happy; tell me 
of your own free will that you love me.” 

“You know I do. I love you, Norman — I will say it now — I 
love you ten thousand times better than my life. I have loved 
you ever since I first saw you; but I was afraid to say so, be- 
cause of — well, you know why.” 

“You are not afraid now, Madaline?” 

“No, not now,” she replied; “you have chosen me from all 
the world to be your wife. I will think of nothing but making 
you happy.” 

“In token of that, kiss me — just once — of your own free 
will.” 

“No,” she refused, with a deep blush. 

“ You will, if you love me.” he said; and then she turned her 
face to his. She raised her pure, sweet lips to his and kissed 
him, blushing as she did so to the very roots of her golden 
hair. 

“You must never ask me to do that again,” she said, gravely. 

“No,” returned he; “ it was so remarkably unpleasant. Mad- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


117 


aline, I could not wish for a repetition;” and then they went 
back to the house together. 

“Norman,” said Madaline, as they stood before the great 
Gothic porch, “will you wait until to-morrow before you tell 
the duchess?” 

“ No,” he laughed, “I shall tell her this very day.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

It was almost noon before Lord Arleigh saw Philippa, and 
then it struck him that she was not looking well. She seemed 
to have lost some of her brilliant color, and he fancied she was 
thinner than she used to be. She had sent for him to her 
boudoir, 

“I heard that you were inquiring for me, Norman,” she said. 
“Had you any especial reason for so doing?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “I have a most important reason. But 
vou are not looking so bright as usual, Philippa. Are you not 
well?” 

“ The weather is too warm for one to look bright,” she said; 
“much sunshine always tires me. Sit down here, Norman; my 
room looks cool enough, does it not?” 

In its way her room was a triumph of art; the hangings were 
of pale amber and white — there was a miniature fountain cool- 
ing the air with its spray, choice flowers emitting sweet perfume. 
The fair young duchess was resting on a couch of amber satin; 
she held a richly-jeweled fan in her hands, which she used oc- 
casionally. She looked very charming in her dress of light ma- 
terial, her dark hair carelessly but artistically arranged. Still 
there was something about her unlike herself; her lips were pale, 
and her eyes had in them a strange, wistful expression. Nor- 
man took his seat near the little couch. 

“I have come to make a confession, Philippa,” he began. 

“So I imagined; you look very guilty. What is it?” 

“I have found my ideal. I love her, she loves me, and I want 
to marry her.” 

The pallor of the lovely lips deepened. For a few minutes 
no sound was heard except the falling of the spray of the foun- 
tain, and then the Duchess of Hazlewood looked up and said: 

“ Why do you make this confession to me, Norman?” 

“ Because it concerns some one in whom you are interested. 
It is Madaline whom I love, Madaline whom I wish to marry. 
But that is not strange news to you, I am sure, Philippa.” 

Again there was a brief silence; and then the duchess said, in 
a low voice: 


118 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“You must admit that I warned you, Norman, from the very 
first.” 

He raised his head proudly. 

“You warned me? I do not understand.” 

“ I kept her out of your sight. I told you it would be better 
for you not to see her. I advised you, did I not?” 

She seemed rather to be pleading in self-defense than think- 
ing of him. 

“But, my dearest Philippa, I want no warning — I am very 
happy as to the matter I have nearest my heart. I thank you 
for bringing my sweet Madaline here. You do not seem to 
understand?” 

She looked at him earnestly. 

“Do you love her so very much, Norman?” 

“ I love her better than any words of mine can tell,” he said. 
“ The moment I saw her first I told you my dream was realized 
— I had found my ideal. I have loved her ever since.” 

“ How strange!” murmured the duchess. 

’ “Do you think it strange? Kemember how fair and winsome 
she is — how sweet and gentle. I do not believe there is anv one 
like her.” 

The white hand that held the jeweled fan moved more 
vigorously. 

“Why do you tell me this, Norman? What do you wish me 
to do?” 

“ You have always been so kind to me,” he said, “ you have 
ever been as a sister, my best, dearest, truest friend. I could 
not have a feeling of this kind without telling you of it. Do you 
remember how you used to tease me about my ideal. Neither 
of us thought in those days that I should find her under your 
roof.” 

“No,” said the duchess, quietly, “ it is very strange.” 

“I despaired of winning Madaline,” he continued. “ She had 
such strange ideas of the wonderful distance between us — she 
thought so much more of me than of herself, of the honor of my 
fanjily and my name— that, to tell you the truth, Philippa, I 
thought I should never wun her consent to be my wife.” 

“ And you have won it at last,” she put in, with quiet 
gravity. 

“Yes— at last. This morning she promised to be my wife.” 

The dark eyes looked straight into his own. 

“ It is a miserable marriage for you, Norman. Granted that 
Madaline has beauty, grace, purity, she is without fortune, con- 
nection, position. You, an Arleigh of Beechgrove, ought to do 
better. I am speaking as the world will speak. It is really a 
wretched marriage.” 

“I can afford to laugh at the world and please myself in the 


?:■ 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 119 

choice of a wife. There are certain circumstances under which 
I would not have married any one; these circumstances do not 
surround my darling. She stands out clear and distinct as a 
bright jewel from the rest of the world. To-day she promised 
to be my wife, but she is so sensitive and hesitating that I am 
almost afraid I shall lose her even now, and I want to marry her 
as soon as I can.” 

“ But why,” again asked the duchess, “ do you tell me this?” 

“ Because it concerns you most nearly. She lives under your 
roof — she is, in some measure, j owr portegee.'' 

“ Vere will be very angry wdien he hears of it,” said the 
duchess. And then Lord Arleigh looked up proudly. 

“I do not see why he should. It is certainly no business of 
his.” 

“He will think it so strange.” 

“It is no stranger than any other marriage,” said Lord Ar- 
leigh. “ Philippa, you disappoint me. I expected more sym- 
pathy at least from you.” 

The tone of his voice was so full of pain that she looked up 
quickly. 

“ Do you think me unkind, Norman. You could not expect 
any true friend of yours to be very delighted at such a marriage 
as this, could you?” It seemed as though she knew and under- 
stood that opposition made his own plan seem only the dearer 
to him. “ Still I have no wish to fail in sympathy. Madaline 
is very lovely and very winning — I have a great affection for her 
— and I think — nay, I am quite sure — that she loves you very 
dearly. ” 

“ That is better — that is more like your own self, Philippa. 
You used to be above all conventionality. I knew that in the 
depths of your generous heart you would be pleased for your 
old friend to be happy at last— and I shall be happy, Philippa. 
You wish me well, do you not?” 

Her lips seemed hard and dry as she replied : 

“Yes, I wish you well.” 

“What I wished to consult you about is my marriage. It 
must not take place here, of course. I understand, and think 
it only natural, that the duke does not wish to have public at- 
tention drawn in any way to Madaline. We all like to keep our 
little family secrets; consequently I have thought of a plan 
which I believe will meet all the difficulties of the case.” 

The pallor of the duchess’ face deepened. 

“Are you faint or ill, Philippa?” he asked, wondering at her 
strange appearance. 

“No,” she replied, “it is only the heat that affects me. Go 
on with your story, Norman; it interests me.” 

“That is like my dear old friend Philippa. I though a mar- 


120 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


riage from here would not do — it would entail publicity and re- 
mark; that none of us would care for — besides, there could 
hardly be a marriage under your auspices during the absence of 
the duke.” 

“ No, it would hardly be en regie , she agreed. 

“ But,” continued Norman, “if Lady Peters would befriend 
me — if she would go away to some quiet sea-side place, and 
take Madaline with her — then, at the end of a fortnight, I might 
join them there, and we could be married, with every due ob- 
servance of conventionality, but without calling undue public 
attention to the ceremony. Do you not think that a good plan, 
Philippa?” 

“ Yes,” she said slowdy. 

“Look interested in it, or you will mar my happiness. Why, 
if it were your marriage, Philippa, T should consider every de- 
tail of high importance. Do not -look cold or indifferent about 
it.” 

She roused herself with a shudder. 

“I am neither cold nor indifferent,” she said — “on the con- 
trary, I am vitally interested. You wish me, of course, to ask 
Lady Peters if she wdll do this?” 

“ Yes, because I know she will refuse you nothing.” 

“ Then that is settled,” said the duchess. “ There is a pretty, 
quiet little watering-place called St. Mildred’s — I remember 
hearing Vere speak of it last year — which would meet your 
wishes, I think, if Lady Peters and Madaline consent.” 

“I am sure they will consent,” put in Lord Arieigh hope- 
fully. 

“There is another thing to be thought of,” said the duchess 
— “a trousseau for the fair young bride.” 

“Yes, I know. She will have every fancy gratified after our 
marriage, but there will not be time for much preparations be- 
fore it.” 

“Let me be fairy godmother,” said the duchess. “In three 
weeks from to-day I engage to have such a trousseau as has 
rarely been seen. You can add dresses and ornaments to it 
afterward.” 

“You are very good. Do you know,” he said, “that it is 
only now that I begin to recognize my old friend? At first you 
seemed so unsympathetic, so cold — now you are my sister Phil- 
ijDpa, the sharer of my joys and sorrows. We had no secrets 
when we were children.” 

“No,” she agreed, mournfully, “none.” 

“And we have none now,” he said, with a happy laugh. 
“ How astonished Vere will be when he returns and finds that 
Madaline is married! And I think that, if it can be all arranged 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


121 


■without any great blow to his family pride, he will not be ill- 
pleased.” 

“ I should think not,” she returned, listlessly. 

“ And you, Philippa — you will extend to my beloved wife the 
friendship and affection that you have given to me?” 

‘‘Yes,” she replied, absently. 

“ Continue to be her fairy -godmother. There is no friend who 
can do as you can do. You will be Madaline’s sheet-anchor and 
great hope.” 

She turned away with a shudder. 

“Philii^pa,” he continued, “will you let me send Lady 
Peters to you now, that I may know as soon as possible whether 
she consents?” 

“ You can send her if you will, Norman.” 

Was it his fancy, or did he really, as he stood at the door, 
hear a deej^, heart-broken sigh? Did her voice, in a sad, low 
wail, come to him — “Norman, Norman!” 

He turned quicky, but she seemed already to have forgotten 
him, and was looking through the open window. 

Was it his fancy again, when the door had closed, or did she 
really cry — “ Norman!” He opened the door quickly. 

“Did you call me, Philippa?” he asked. 

“ No,” she replied; and he went away. 

“ I do not understand it,” he thought; there is something 
not quite right. Philippa is not like herself.” 

Then he went in search of Lady Peters, whom he bewildered 
and astonished by telling her that it lay in her power to make 
him the happiest of men. 

“ That is what men say when they make an offer of marriage,” 
she observed; “and I am sure you are not about to make one 
to me.” 

“No; but, dear Lady Peters, I want you to help me marry 
some one else. Will you go to the duchess? She will tell you 
all about it.” 

“Why not tell me yourself?” she asked. 

“She has better powers of persuasion,” he replied, laugh- 
ingly- 

“ Then I am afraid, if so much persuasion is required, that 
something wrong is on the iapis,'^ said Lady Peters. “I cannot 
imagine why men who have beautiful young wives go yachting. 
It seems to me a terrible mistake. ” 

Lord Arleigh laughed. 

“The duke’s yachting has very little to do with this matter,” 
he said. “Lady Peters, before you listen to the duchess, let 
me make one appeal to you. With all my heart I beseech you 
to grant the favor that she will ask.” 


t 


122 WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 

He bent bis handsome head, and kissed her hand. Tears of 
emotion rose to the lady’s eyes. 

“Is it something for you, Lord Arleigh?” she asked. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ for my own unworthy self.” 

“Then I will do it if possible,” she replied. 

But when the Duchess of Hazlewood had told her what was 
needed, and had placed the whole matter before her. Lady Peters 
looked shocked. 

“ My dear Philippa,” she said, “ this is terrible. I could not 
have believed it. She is a lovely, graceful, pure-minded girl, I 
know; but such a marriage for an Arleigh! I cannot believe 
it.” 

“That is unfortunate,” said her grace, dryly, “for lie seems 
very much in earnest.” 

“No money, no rank, no connection, while he is one of the 
finest matches in England!” 

“She is his ideal,” was the mocking reply. “It is not for us 
to point out deficiencies. ” 

“But what will the duke say?” inquired her ladyship, anx- 
iously. 

“I do not suppose that he will be very much surprised. 
Even if he is, he wull have had time to recover from his aston- 
ishment before he returns. The duke knows that ‘ beauty leads 
man at its will.’ Few can resist the charm of a pretty face.” 

“ What shall I do?” asked Lady Peters, hopelessly, “ what 
am I to say?” 

“Decide for yourself. I decline to offer any opinion. I say 
simply that if you refuse he will probably ask the favor of some 
one else.” 

“ But do you advise me to consent, Philippa?” inquired Lady 
Peters, anxiously. 

“I advise you to please yourself. Had he asked a similar 
favor of me, I might have granted or I might have refused it; I 
cannot say.” 

“To think of that simple, fair-faced girl being Lady Arleigh!” 
exclaimed Lady Peters. “I suppose that I had better consent, 
or he will do something more desperate. He is terribly in 
earnest, Philippa.” 

“ He is terribly in love,” said the duchess, carelessly; and 
then Lady Peters decided that she would accede to Lord Ar- 
leigh’s request. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


123 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

More than once during the week that ensued after his pro- 
posal of marriage to Madaline, Lord Arleigh looked in wonder 
at the duchess. She seemed so unlike herself — absent, brood- 
ing, almost sullen. The smiles, the animation, the vivacitj, the 
wit, the brilliant repartee that had distinguished her had all 
vanished. More than once he asked her if she was ill; the an- 
swer was always “No.” More than once he asked her if she 
was unhappy; the answer was always the same — “No.” 

“You are miserable because your husband is not here,” he 
said to her one day, compassionately. “If you had known how 
much you would have missed him, you would not have let him 

There was a wondrous depth of pain in the dark eyes raised 
to his. 

“I wish he had not gone,” she said; “ from the very deptlis 
of my heart I wish that.” Then she seemed to recover her 
natural gayety. “I do not know, though, why I should have 
detained him,” she said, half laughingly. “Ho is so fond of 
yachting.” 

“You must not lose all your spirits before he returns, Philip- 
pa, or he will say we have been but sorry guardians.” 

“No one has ever found fault with my spirits before,” said 
the duchess. “ You are not complimentary, Norman.” 

“ You give me such a strange impression,” he observed. “ Of 
course it is highly ridiculous, but if I did not know you as well 
as I do, I should think that you had something on your mind, 
some secret that was making you unhappy — that there was a 
struggle always going on between something you would like to 
do and something you are unwilling to do. It is an absurd 
idea, I know, yet it has taken possession of me.” 

She laughed, but there Avas little music in the sound. 

“What imaginative power you have, Normah! You would 
make your fortune as a novelist. What can I have to be unhap- 
py about? Should you think that any woman has a lot more 
brilliant than mine? See how young I am for my position — 
how entirely I have my own way! Could any one, do* you think, 
be more happy than I?” 

“No, perhaps not,” he replied. 

So tlie weeiv passed, and at the end of it Lady Peters went 
with Madaline to St. Mildred's. At first the former had been 
unwilling to go — it had seemed to her a terrible mesa/Z/awce ; 
but, woman-like, she had grown interested in the love-story — 


124 


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she had learned to understand the passionate love that Lord 
Arleigh had for his fair-haired bride. A breath of her own 
youth swept over her as she watched them. 

It might be a mesalliance, a bad match, but it was decidedly a 
case of true love, of the truest love she had ever witnessed; so 
that her dislike to the task before her melted away. 

After all. Lord Arleigh had a perfect right to please himself — 
to do as he would; if he did not think Madaline’s birth placed 
her greatly beneath him, no one else need suggest such a thing. 
From being a violent opponent of the marriage, Lady Peters 
became one of its most strenuous supporters. So they went 
av/ay to St. Mildred’s, where the great tragedy of Madaline’s 
life was to begin. 

On the morning that she went way, the duchess sent for her 
to her room. She told her all that she intended doing as re- 
garded the elaborate and magnificent trousseau preparing for 
her. Madaline was overwhelmed. 

“ You are too good to me,” she said — “you spoil me. How 
am I to thank you?” 

“Your wedding-dress — plain, simple, but rich, to suit the oc- 
casion — will be sent to St. Mildred’s,” said the duchess — “also 
a handsome traveling costume; but all the rest of the packages 
can be sent to Beechgrove. You will need them only there.” 

Madaline kissed the hand extended to her. 

“I shall never know how to thank you,” she said. 

A peculiar smile -came over the darkly-beautiful face. 

“I think you will,” retfirned the duchess “I can imagine 
what blessings you will some day invoke on my name.” 

Then she withdrew her hand suddenly from the touch of the 
pure sweet lips. 

“Good-by, Madaline,” she said; and it was long before the 
young girl saw the fair face of the duchess again. 

Just as she was quitting the room Philippa placed a packet 
in her hand. 

“ You will carefully observe the directions given in this?” she 
said; and Madaline promised to do so. 

The time at ISt. Mildred’s soon passed. It was a quiet, pictur- 
esque village, standing at the foot of a green hill facing the bay. 
There was little to be seen, except the shining sea and the blue 
sky. An old church, called St. Mildred’s, stood on the hill-top. 
Few strangers ever visited the little watering-place. The resi- 
dents were people who preferred quiet and beautiful scenery to 
everything else. There was a hotel, called the Queen’s, where 
the few strangers that came mostly resided; and just facing the 
sea stood a newly-built terrace of houses called Sea View, where 
other visitors also sojourned. 

It was just the place for lovers’ dreams — a shining sea, golden 


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125 


sands, white cliffs with little nooks and bays, pretty and shaded 
walks on the hill-top. 

Madaline’s great happiness was delightful to see. The fair 
face grew radiant in its loveliness; the blue eyes shone brightly. 
There was the delight, too, every day of inspecting the parcels 
that -arrived one after the other; but the greatest pleasure of all 
was afforded by the wedding-dress. It was plain, simijle, yet, 
in its way, a work of art — a rich white silk with little lace or 
trimming, yet looking so like a wedding-dress that no one could 
mistake it. There were snowy gloves and shoes — in fact every- 
thing was perfect, selected by no common taste, the gift of no 
illiberal hand. Was it foolish of her to kiss tlae white folds 
while the tears filled her eyes, and to think of herself that she 
was the happiest creature under the sun? Was it foolish of her 
to touch the pretty bridal robes with soft, caressing fingers, as 
though they were some living thing that she loved — to place 
them where the sunbeams fell on them, to admire them in every, 
different fold and arrangement? 

Then the eventful day came — Lord Arleigh and Madaline were 
to be married at an early hour. 

“Not,” said Lord Arleigh, proudly, “that there is any need 
for concealment — ^^why should there be? — but you see. Lady Pe- 
ters, if it w'ere known that it was my wedding-day, I have so 
many friends, so many relatives, that privacy would be impossi- 
ble for us; therefore the world has not been enlightened as to 
when I intended to claim my darling for my own.” 

“It is a strange marriage for an Arleigh,” observed Lady Pe- 
ters — “ the first of its kind, I am sure. But I think you are 
right — your plan is wise.” 

All the outward show made at the wedding consisted in the 
rapid driving of a carriage from the hotel to the church — a car- 
riage containing two ladies — one young, fair;^ charming as a 
spring morning, the other older, graver, and more sedate. 

The young girl was fair and sweet, her golden hair shining 
through the marriage vail, her blue eyes wet with unshed tears, 
her face flushed with daintiest rose-leaf bloom. 

It was a pleasant spectacle to see the dark, handsome face of 
her lover as he greeted her, the love that shone in his eyes, the 
pride of his manner, as though he would place her before the 
whole world, and defy it to produce one so graceful or so fair. 
Lady Peters' face softened and her heart beat as she walked up 
to the altar with them. This was true love. 

So the grand old words of the marriage-service were pro- 
nounced — they were promised to each other for better for worse, 
for weal for woe — never to part until death parted them — to be 
each the other’s world. 

It was the very morning for a bride. Heaven and earth smiled 


12G 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


tlieir brightest, the sunshine was golden, the autumn flowers 
bloomed fair, the autumn foliage had assumed its rich hues of 
crimson and of burnished gold; there was a bright light over 
the sea and the hill-tops. 

Only one little contretemps happened at the wedding. Mada- 
line smiled at it. Lord Arleigh was too happy even to notice 
it, but Lady Peters grew pale at the occurrence^ for, according 
to her old-fashioned ideas, it augured ill. 

Just as Lord Arleigh was putting the ring on the finger of his 
fair young bride, it slipped and fell to the ground. The church 
was an old-fashioned one, and there were graves and vaults all 
down the aisle. Away rolled the little golden ring, and when 
Lord Arleigh stooped down he could not see it. He was for 
some minutes searching for it, and then he found it — it had 
rolled into the hollow of a large letter on one of the level grave- 
stones. 

Involuntarily he kissed it as he lifted it from the ground; it 
was too cruel for anything belonging to that fair young bride to 
have been brought into contact with death. Lady Peters noted 
the little incident with a shudder, Madaliue merely smiled. 
Then the ceremony was over — Lord Arleigh and Madaline were 
man and wife. It seemed to him that the whole world around 
him was transformed. 

They walked out of the church together, and when they stood 
in the sunlight he turned to her. 

“ My darling, my wife,'* he said, in an impassioned voice, 
*‘may Heaven send to us a life bright as this sunshine, love as 
pure — life and death together! I pray Heaven that no deeper 
cloud may come over our lives than there is now in the sky 
above us.” 

These words were spoken at only eleven in the morning. If 
he had known all that he would have to suffer before eleven at 
night, Lord Arleigh, with all his bravery, all his chivalry, would 
have been ready to fling himself from the green hill-top into the 
shimmering sea. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

It was the custom of the Avleighs to spend their honey-moon 
at liome; they had never fallen into the habit of making them- 
selves uncomfortable abroad. The proper place, they consid- 
ered, for a man to take his young wife to was home; the first 
Lord Arleigh had done so, and each lord had followed this sen- 
sible example. Norman, Lord Arleigh, had not dreamed of 
making any change. True, he bad planned with his fair young 
bride that when the autumn months ,had passed away they 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


127 


would go aLroad, and not spend the winter in cold, foggy Eng- 
land. They had talked of the cities they would visit — ^and Mad- 
aline’s sweet eyes had grown brighter with happy thoughts. 
J3iit that was not to be yet; they were to go home first, and when 
they liad learned something of what home-life would be to- 
gether, then they could go abroad. 

Lady Peters went back to Verdun Royal on the ^me morn- 
ing; her task ended with the marriage. She took back with her 
innumerable messages for the duchess. As she stood at the 
carriage-iloor, she-— so little given to demonstration — took the 
young wife into her arms. 

Good- by, Madaline — or I should say now. Lady Arleigh— 
good-by, and may Heaven bless you! I did not love you at 
first, my dear, and I thought my old friend was doing a foolish 
thing; but now I love you with all my heart; you are so fair and 
wise, so sweet and pui'e, that in inking you his wife he has 
chosen more judiciously than if he had married the daughter of 
a noble house. That is my tribute to you, Madaline; and to it 
I add, may Heaven bless you, and send you a happy iifeP 

Then th^y parted; but, as she went home through all the 
glory of the sunlit day. Lady Peters did not feel quite at ease. 

“i wish,” she said to herself, “that he had not dropped the 
wedding-ring; it has made me feel uncomfortable.” 

Bride and bridegroom had one of the blithest, happiest jour- 
neys ever made. What cloud could rise in such a sky as theirs. 
They were blessed with youth, beauty, health; there had been 
no one to raise the least opposition to their marriage; before 
them stretched a long golden future. 

The carriage met them at the station; it was then three in the 
afternoon, and the day continued fair. 

“ We will have a long drive through the park, Madaline,” said 
Lord Arleigh, “You will like to see your new home.” 

So, instead of going direct to the mansion, they turned off 
from the main avenue to make a tour of the park. 

“Now I understand why this place is called Beecligrove,” 
said Madaline, suddenlv. ■“! have never seen such trees in my 
life.” 

She spoke truly. Giant beech-trees spread out their huge 
boughs on all sides. They were trees of which any man would 
have been proud, because of their beauty and magnificence. 
Presently from between the trees she saw the mansion itself. 
Lord Arleigh touched his young wife’s arm gently, 

“My darling,” he said, “ that is home.” 

Her face flushed, her eyes brightened, the sensitive lips quiv- 
ered. 

“Home!” she repeated. “How sweet the word sounds to 

mel” With a tremulous smile she raised her face to his, “ Nor- 


128 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


man,” she said, ** do you know that I feel very much as Lady 
Burleigh, the wife of Lord Burleigh, of Stamford-town, must 
have felt.” 

“But you, Madaline,” he laughed, “are not quite the simple 
maiden — he wooed and won. You have the high-bred grace of 
a lady — nothing could rob you of that.” 

“She must have been loyely and graceful to have won Lord 
Burleigh,” she remarked. 

“Perhaps so, but not like you, Madaline — there has never 
been any one quite like you. I shall feel tempted to call you 
‘Lady Burleigh.* Here we are at home; and, oh, my wife,^my 
darling, how sweet the coming home is!” 

The carriage stopped at the grand entrance. Wishing to spare 
his young wife all fatigue and embarrassment, Lord Aileigh had 
not dispatched the news of his marriage home, so that no one at 
Beechgrove expected to see Lady Arleigh. He sent at once for 
the housekeeper, a tall, stately dame, who came into the dining- 
rooha, looking in unutterable amazement at the beautiful, blush- 
ing young face. 

“Mrs. Chatterton,” he said, “I wish to introduce you to my 
wife. Lady Arleigh. ” 

The stately dame curtesied almost to the ground. 

“Welcome home, my lady,” she said, deferentially. “If I 
had known that your ladyship was expected I would have made 
more befitting preparations.’* 

“Nothing could be better — you have everything in admirable 
order,” responded Lord Arleigh, kindly. 

Then the housekeeper turned with a bow to her master. 

“I did not know that you were married, my lord,” she said. 

“No, Mrs. Chatterton; for reasons of my own, I hurried on 
my marriage. No one shall lose by the hurry, though ” — which 
she knew meant a promise of handsome bounty. 

Presently the housekeeper went with Lady Arleigh to her 
room. 

The grandeur and magnificence of the house almost startled 
her. She felt more like Lady Burleigh than ever, as she went 
up the broad marble staircase and saw the long corridors with 
the multitude of rooms. 

“His lordship wrote to tell me to have all the rooms in the 
western wing ready,” said Mrs. Chatterton; “but he did not tell 
why. They are splendid rooms, my lady — large, bright and 
cheerful. They look over the beautiful beeches in the park, from 
which the place takes its name. Of course you will have what is 
called Lady Arleigh’s suite.” 

As she spoke Mrs. Chatterton threw open the door, and Lady 
Arleigh saw the most magnificent rooms she had ever belield in 
her life — a boudoir all blue silk and white lace, a spacious sleep- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


129 


ing-chamber daintily hung with pink satin, a dressing-room that 
was a marvel of elegance, and a small library, all fitted with the 
greatest luxury. 

“This is the finest suite of rooms in the house,” said the 
housekeeper; “ they are always kept for the use of the mistress 
of Beechgrove. Has your ladyship brought your maid?” 

“No,” replied Lady Arleigli; “the fact is I have not chosen 
one. The Duchess of Hazlewood promised to find one for 
me.” 

The illustrious name pleased the housekeeper. She had felt 
puzzled at the quiet marriage, and the sudden home-coming. If 
the new mistress of Beechgrove was an intimate friend of her 
Grace of Hazlewood’s, as her words seemed to imply, then all 
must be well. 

When Lady Arleigh had changed her traveling-dress, she went 
down-stairs. Her young husband looked up in a rapture of de- 
light. 

“Oh, Madaline,” he said, “how long have you been away 
from me? It seems like a hundred hours, yet I do not suppose 
it has been one. And how fair you look, my love! That cloudy 
white robe suits your golden hair and your sweet face, which has 
the same soft, sweet expression as when I saw you first; and 
those pretty shoulders of yours gleam like polished marble 
through the lace. No dress could be more coquettish or 
prettier.” 

The wide hanging sleeves were fastened back from the shoul- 
ders with buttons of pearl, leaving the white, rounded arms 
bare; a bracelet of pearls — Lady Peters’ gift — was clasped round 
the graceful neck; the waves of golden haii% half loose, half 
carelessly fastened, were like a crown on the beautiful head. 

“I am proud of my wife,” he said. “I know that no fairer 
Lady Arleigh has ever been at Beechgrove. When we have 
dined, Madaline, I will take you to the picture-gallery, and in- 
troduce you to my ancestors and ancestresses.” 

A recherche little dinner had been hastily prepared, and was 
served in the grand dining-room. Madaline’s eyes ached with 
the dazzle of silver plate, tlie ornaments and magnificence of the 
room. 

“ Shall I ever grow accustomed to all this?” she asked herself. 
“ Shall I ever learn to look upon it as my own? I am indeed 
bewildered.” 

Yet her husband admired her perfect grace and self-possession. 
She might have been mistress of Beechgrove all her life for any 
evidence she gave to the contrary. His pride in her increased 
every moment; there was no one like her. 

“I have never really known what ‘home’ meant before, 
Madaline, ” he said. “Imagine sitting opposite to a beautiful 


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vision, knowing all the time that it is your wife. My own wife 
— there is magic in the words.” 

And she, in her sweet humility, wondered why Heaven had so 
richly blessed her, and what she had done that the great, pas- 
sionate love of this noble man should be hers. When dinner 
was ended he asked her if she was tired. 

“No,” she answered, laughingly; “I have never felt less 
fatigued. ” 

“Then I should like to show you over the house,” he said — 
“my dear old home. I am so proud of it, Madaline; you under- 
stand what I mean — proud of its beauty; its antiquity — proud 
that no shadow of disgrace has ever rested on it. To others these 
are simply ancient gray walls; to me they represent the honor, 
the stainless repute, the unshadowed dignity of my race. People 
may sneer if they will, but to me there seems nothing so sacred 
as love of race — jealousy of a stainless name.” 

“ 1 can understand and sympathize with you,” she said, “al- 
though the feeling is strange to me.” 

“ Not quite strange, Madaline. Your mother had a name, 
dear, entitled to all respect. Now come with me, and I will in- 
troduce you to the long line of the Ladies Arleigh.” 

They w^ent together to the picture-gallery, and as they passed 
through the hall Madaline heard the great clock chiming. 

“ Ah, Norman,” she said, listening to the chimes, “ how much 
may happen in one day, however short that day may be.” 


CHAPTEK XXV. 

The picture-gallery was one of the chief attractions of Beech- 
grove; like the grand old trees, it had been the work of genera- 
tions. The Arleighs had always been great patrons of the fine 
arts; many a lord of Beechgrove had expended what was a hand- 
some fortune in the purchase of pictures. Tlie gaJlerv itself was 
built on a peculiar principal; it went round the whole of the 
house, extending from the eastern to the western wing — it was 
wide, lofty, well-lighted, and the pictures were w^ell hung. In 
wet weather the ladies of the house used it as a promenade. It 
was filled with art-treasnres of all kinds, the acciimulatioa of 
many generations. From between the crimson velvet hangings 
white marble statues gleamed, copies of the w’orld’s great mas- 
terpieces; there w>re also more modern works of art. The floor 
was of the most exquisite parquetry; the seats and lounges were 
soft and luxurious; in the great windows east and west there 
stood a small fountain, and the ripple of the water sounded like 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


131 


music in tlie quietude of the gallery. One portion of it was de- 
voted entirely to family portraits. They were a wonderful col- 
lection, perhaps one of the most characteristic in England. 

Lord Arleigh and his young wife walked through the gallery. 

“I thought the gallery at Verdun Royal the finest in the 
world,” she said; “ it is nothing compared to this.” 

“ And this,” he returned, “is small, compared with the great 
European galleries.” 

“They belong to nations; this belongs to an individual,” she 
said — “ there is a difference.” 

Holding her hand in his, he led her to the long line of fair- 
faced women. As she stood, the light from the setting sun 
falling on her fair face and golden hair, he said to himself that 
he had no picture in his gallery one-half so exquisite. 

“Now,” he said, “let me introduce you to the ladies of my 
race.” 

At that moment the sunbeams that had been shining on the 
wall died out suddenly. She looked up, half laughingly. 

“ I think the ladies of your race are frowning on me, Nor- 
man,” she said. 

“ Hardly that; if they could but step down from their frames, 
what a stately company they would make to welcome you!” 

And forthwith he proceeded to narrate their various histories. 

“This resolute woman,” he said, “with the firm lips and 
strong, noble face, lived in the time of the Roses; she held this 
old hall against her foes for three whole weeks, until the siege 
was raised, and the enemy retired discomfited. ” 

“ She was a brave woman,” remarked Lady Arleigh. 

“This was a heroine,” he went on — “Lady Alicia Arleigh; 
she would not leave London when the terrible plague raged 
there. It is supposed that she saved numberless lives; she de- 
voted herself to the nursing of the sick, and when all the fright 
and fear had abated, she found herself laden with blessings, and 
her name honored throughout the land. This is Lady Lola, who 
in time of riot went out unattended, unarmed, quite alone, and 
spoke to three or four hundred of the roughest men in the 
country; they had come, in the absence of her husband, to sack 
and pillage the Hall — they marched back again, leaving; it un- 
touched. This, Lady Constance, is a lineal descendant of Lady 
Nethsdale— the brave Lady Nethsdale.” 

She clung to his arm as she stood there. 

“Oh, Norman,” she said, “do you mean that my portrait, 
too, will hang here?” 

“I hope so, my darling, very soon.” 

“ But how can I have a place among all these fair and noble 
women,” she asked, with sad humility — “I whose ancestors 
have done nothing to deserve merit or praise? Why, Norman, 


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in the long years to come, when some Lord Arleigh brings home 
his wife, as you have brought me, and they stand together be- 
fore my picture as I stand before these, the young wife will ask: 
‘Who was this?’ and the answer will be: ‘Lady Madaline Ar- 
leigh.’ She will ask again: ‘Who was she?’ And what will the 
answer be? ‘ She was no one of importance; she had neither 
money, rank, nor aught else.’ ” 

He looked at the bent face near him. 

“ Nay, my darling, not so. That Lord Arleigh will be able 
to answer: ‘She was the flower of the race; she was famed for 
her pure, gentle life, and the good example she gave to all 
around her; she was beloved by rich and poor.’ That is what 
will be said of you, my Madaline.” 

“Heaven make me worthy!” she said, humbly. And then 
they came to a picture that seemed to strike her. 

“Norman,” she said, “ that face is like the Duchess of Hazle- 
wood’s.” 

“Do you think so, darling? Well, there is perhaps a faint 
resemblance. ” 

“ It lies in the brow and in the chin,” she said. “ How beau- 
tiful the duchess is!” she continued. “I have often looked at 
her till her face seemed to dazzle me. ” 

“I know some one who is far more beautiful in my eyes,” he 
returned. 

“Norman,” she said, half hesitatingly, “do you know one 
thing that I have thought so strange?” 

“No, I have not been trusted with many of your thoughts 
yet,” he returned. 

“I have wondered so often why you never fell in love with 
the duchess. ” 

“Fate had something better in store for me,” he said, laugh- 
ing. 

She looked surprised. 

“ You cannot mean that you really think I am better than she 
is, Norman?” 

“ I do think it, darling; ten thousand times better — ten thou- 
sand times fairer in my eyes.” 

“Noiynan,” she said, a sudden gleam of memory brightening 
her face; “Iliad almost forgotten — the duchess gave me this 
for you; I was to be sure to give it to you before the sun set on 
our wedding-day.” 

She held out a white packet sealed securely, and he took it 
wonderingly. He tore off the outer cover, and saw, written on 
the envelope: 

“ A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, 
to Lord Arleigh. To be read alone on his wedding-day.” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


133 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

liord Arleigh stared at the packet which his wife had given 
him, and again and again read the words that were inscribed on 
it: “ A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, 
to Lord Arleigh. To be read alone on his wedding-day.” What 
could it mean? Philippa at times took strange caprices into her 
head. This seemed to be one of the strangest. He held the 
letter in his hand, a strange presentiment of evil creeping over 
him which he could not account for. From the envelope came 
a sweet scent, which the duchess always usedc It was so famil- 
iar to him that for a few minutes it brought her vividly before 
him — he could have fancied her standing near him. Then he 
remembered the strange words: “ To be read alone.” What could 
that mean? That the letter contained something that hisyouilg 
wife must not see or hear. 

He looked at her. She had seemingly forgotten all about the 
packet, and stood now, with a smile on her face, before one of 
the finest pictures in the gallery, wrapt in a dream of delight. 
There could not be anything in the letter affecting her. Still, 
as Philippa had written so pointedly, it would be better per- 
haps for him to heed her words. 

‘*Madaline, my darling,” he said, sinking on to an ottoman, 
‘‘you have taken no tea. You would like some. Leave me 
here ‘alone for half an hour. I want to think.” 

She did what she had never done voluntarily before. She 
w’ent up to him, and clasped her arms round his neck. She 
bent her blushing face over his, and the caress surprised as 
much as it delighted him — she was so shyly demonstrative. 

“ What are you going to think about, Norman? Will it be of 
me?” 

“Of whom else should I think on my wedding-day, if not of 
my wife?” he asked. 

I should be jealous if your thoughts went anywhere else,” 
replied Madaline. “There is a daring speech, Norman. I 
never thought I should make such a one.” 

“Your daring is very delightful, Madaline; let me hear more 
of it.” 

She laughed the low, happy, contented laugh that sounded 
like sweetest music in his ears, 

“I will dare to say something else, Norman, if you will prom- 
ise not to think it uncalled for. I am very happy, my darling 
husband — 1 love you very much, and I thank you for your 
love.” 


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WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Still better,” he said, kissing the beautiful, blushing face. 
“ Now go, Madaline. I understand the feminine liking for a 
cup of tea.” 

Shall I send one to you?” she asked. 

“No,” he replied, laughingly. “You may teach me to care 
about tea in time. Ido not yet.” 

He was still holding the letter in his hand, and the faint per- 
fume was like a message from Philii3j)a, reminding him that the 
missive was still unread. 

“I shall not be long,” said Madaline. She saw that for some 
reason or o-ther he wanted to be alone. 

“You will find me here,” he returned. “This is a favorite 
nook of mine. I shall not leave it until you return.” 

The nook was a deep bay window from which there was a 
magnificent view of the famous beeches. Soft Turkish cush- 
ions and velvet lounges filled it, and near it hung one of Titian's 
most gowgeous pictures — a dark-eyed woman with a ruby neck- 
lace. The sun’s declining rays falling on the rubies, made them 
appear like drops of blood. It was a grand picture, one that 
had been bought by the lords of Beechgrove, and the present 
Lord Arleigh took great delight in it. 

He watched the long folds of Madaline^s white dress, as she 
passed along the gallery, and then the hangings fell behind her. 
Once more he held up the packet. 

“A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, 
to Lord Arleigh.” 

Whatever mystery it contained should be solved at once. He 
broke the seal; the envelope contained a closely-written epistle. 
He looked at it in wonder. What could Philippa have to write 
to him about? The letter began as follows: 

“A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, 
to Norman, Lord Arleigh. You will ask what it is? My answ’er 
is, my revenge — well planned, patiently awaited. 

“ You have read the lines: 

** Heaven has no r^e like love to hatred turned. 

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’ 

They are true. Fire, fury, and hatred rage now in my heart as 
I write this to you. You have scorned me— this is my revenge. 
I am a proud woman — I have lowered my pride to you. My 
lips have never willfully uttered a false word; still they have 
lied to you. I loved you once, Norman, and on the day my 
love died I knew that nothing could arise from its ashes. I 
loved you with a love passing that of most women; and it was 
not all my fault. I was taught to love you — the earliest mem- 
ory of my life is having been taught to love yon. 

“You remember, too. It may have been injudicious, impru- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


135 


dent, foolish, yet while I was taught to think, to read, to sing, 
I was also taught to consider myself your ‘little wife.’ Hun- 
dreds of times have you given me that name, while we walked 
together as children — you with your arm about my neck, I 
proud of being called your ‘little wife.’ 

“As a child, I loved you better than anything else in the wide 
world— better than my mother, my home, my friends; and my 
love grew with my growth. I prided myself on my unbroken 
troth to you. I earned the repute of being cold and heartless, 
because I could think of no one but you. No compliments 
pleased me, no praise flattered me; I studied, learned, cultivated 
every gift Heaven had given me — all for your sake. I thought 
of no future, but with you, no life but with you, no love but 
for you; I had no dreams apart from you. I was proud when 
they talked of my beauty; that you should have a fair wife de- 
lighted me. 

“ When you returned home I quite expected tliat you w^ere 
coming to claim me as your wife — I thought that was what 
brought you to England. I remember the day you came, Ah, 
well, revenge helps me to live, or I should die! The first tones 
of your voice, the first clasp of your hand, the first look of 
your eyes chilled me with sorrow and disappointment. Yet I 
hoped against hope. I thought you were shy, perhaps more 
reserved than of yore. I thought everything and anything ex- 
cept that you had ceased to love me; I would have believed any- 
thing rather than that you were not going to fulfill our ancient 
contract, and make me your wife. I tried to make you talk of 
old times— you were unwilling; you seemed confused, embar- 
rassed; I read all those signs aright; still I hoped against hope. 
I tried to win you — I tried all that love, patience, gentleness, 
and consideration could do. 

“What women bear, and yet live on! Do you know that 
every moment of that time \vas full of deadly torture to me, 
deadly anguish? Ah, me, the very memory of it distresses me! 
Every one spoke to me as though our engagement was a cer- 
tainty, and our marriage settled. Yet to me there came, very 
slowly, the awful conviction that you had ignored, or had for- 
gotten the old ties. I fought against that conviction. I would 
not entertain it. Then came for me the fatal day when I hep,rd 
you tell the Duchess of Aytoun that you had never seen the 
woman you w^ould care to make your wife. I heard your con- 
fession, but would not give in; I clung to the idea of winning 
your love, even after I had hoped against hope, and tried to 
make you care for me. At last came the night out on the bal- 
cony, when I resolved to risk all, to ask you for your love — do 
you remember it? You were advocating the cause of another; 
i asked you why you did not speak for yourself. You must 


136 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


have known that my woman’s heart was on fire — you must have 
seen that my whole soul was in my speech, yet you told me in 
cold, well-chosen words that you had only a brother’s affection 
forme. On that night, for the first time, I realized the truth 
that, come what might, you would never love me — that you had 
no idea of carrying out the old contract — that your interest in 
me was simply a kindly, friendly one. On that night, when I 
realized that truth, the better part of me died; my love — the 
love of my life — died; my hopes — the life-long hopes — died; the 
best, truest, noblest part of me died. 

“ When you had gone away, when I was left alone, I fell on 
my knees and swore to be revenged. I vowed vengeance against 
you, no matter what it might cost. Again let me quote to you 
the lines: 

“ ‘ Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, 

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’ 

You scorned me — you must suffer for it. I swore to be re- 
venged, but how was I to accomplish my desire? I could not 
see any way in which it was possible for me to make you suffer. 
I could not touch your heart, your affections, your fortune. 
The only thing that I could touch was your pride. Through 
your pride, your keen sensitiveness I decided to stab you; and 
I have succeeded! I recovered my courage and my pride to- 
gether, made you believe that all that had passed had been a 
jest, and then I told you that I was going to marry tiie duke. 

“I will say no more of my love or my sorrow. I lived only 
for vengeance, but how my object was to be effected I could not 
tell. I thought of many plans, they were all worthless — they 
could not hurt you as you had hurt me. At last, one day, quite 
accidentally I took up ‘The Lady of Lyons,’ and read it 
through. That gave me an idea of what my revenge should be 
like. Do you begin to suspect what this present is that the 
Duchess of Hazlewood intends making to you on your wedding- 
day?” 

As he read on his face grew pale. What could it mean — this 
reference to “ The Lady of Lyons?” That was the story of a 
deceitful marriage — surely all unlike his own. 

‘‘ You are wondering. Turn the page and you shall read that, 
when an idea once possesses a woman’s mind, she has no rest 
until it is carried out. I had none. My vengeance was mapped 
out for me — it merely required filling in. Let me show you 
how it was filled up— how I have lied to you, who to another 
have never uttered a false word. 

“Years ago we had a maid whom my mother liked very much. 
She was gentle, well-mannered, and well-bred for her station in 
life. She left us, and went to some other part of England. She 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


137 


married badly— a liaudsome, reckless iie’er-do-well, who led her 
a most wretched life. 

“ I know not, and care nothing for the story of her married 
life, her rights and wrongs. How she becomes of interest to 
you lies in the fact tliat shortly after my marriage she called to 
see me and ask my aid. She had been compelled to give up her 
home in the country and come to London, where, with her hus- 
band and child, she was living in poverty and misery. While 
she was talking to me tlie duke came in. I think her patient 
face interested him. He listened to her story, and promised to 
do something for her husband. You will wonder how this story 
of Margaret Dornham concerns you. Read on. You will know 
in time. 

“ My husband having promised to assist this man, sent for 
him to the house; and the result of that visit was that the man, 
seeing a quantity of plate about, resolved upon helping himself 
to a portion of it. To make my story short, he was caught, 
after having broken into the house, packed up a large parcel of 
plate, and filled his pockets with some of my most valuable 
jewels. There was no help for it but to prosecute him, and his 
sentence was, under the circumstances, none too heavy, being 
ten years’ penal servitude. 

“ Afterward I went to see his wife Margaret, and found her 
in desperate circumstances; yet she had one ornament in her 
house — a beautiful young girl, her daughter, so fair of face that 
she dazzled me. The moment I saw her I thought of your de- 
scription of your ideal — eyes like blue hyacinths, and hair of 
gold. Forthwith a plan entered my mind wLich I have most 
successfully carried out. 

“ I asked for the girl’s name, and was told that it was Mada- 
line — an uncommon name for one of her class — but the mother 
had lived among well-to-do people, and had caught some of 
their ideas. I looked at the girl — her face was fair, sweet, pure. 
I felt the power of its beauty, and only wondered that she 
should belong to such people at all; her hands were wdiite and 
shapely as my own, her figure was slender and graceful. I be- 
gan to talk to her, and found her well educated, refined, intelli- 
gent — all, in fact, that one could wish. 

“Little by little their story came out — it was one of a mother’s 
pride and glory in iier onl}^ child. She worshiped her — literally 
w^orshiped her. She had not filled the girl’s mind with any 
nonsensical idea about being a lady, but she had denied herself 
everything in order that Madaline might be well educated. For 
many years Madaline had been what is called a governess-pupil 
in a most excellent school. ‘ Let me die* when I may,’ said the 
poor, proud mother, ‘ I shall leave Madaline with a fortune in 
her own hands; her education will always be a fortune to her.’ 


138 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ I asked her one day if she would let me take Madaline 
home with me for a few hours; she seemed delighted, and con- 
sented at once. I took the girl home, and with my own hands 
dressed her in one of my most becoming toilets. Her beauty 
was something marvelous. She seemed to gain both grace and 
dignity in her new attire. Shortly afterward, with her mother’s 
permission, I sent her for six months to one of the most fash- 
' ionable schools in Paris. The change wrought in her was mag- 
ical; she learned as much in that time as some girls would have 
learned in a couple of years. Every little grace of manner 
seemed to come naturally to her; she acquired a tone that 
twenty years spent in the best of society does not give to some. 
Then I persuaded Vere, my husband, to take me to Paris for a 
few days, telling him I wanted to see the daughter of an old 
friend, who was at school there. In telling him that I did not 
speak falsely — Madaline’s mother had been an old friend of 
mine. Then I told him that my whim was to bring Madaline 
home and make a companion of her; he allowed me do just 
as I pleased, asking no questions about her parents, or anything 
else. I do not believe it ever occurred to him as strange that 
the name of my protegee and of the man wdio had robbed him 
was the same — indeed, he seemed to have forgotten all about the 
robbery. So I brought Madaline home to Vere Court, and then 
to London, where I knew that you would see her. My husband 
never asked any questions about her; he made no objection, no 
remark — everything that I did was always well done in his 
eyes. 

“ But you will understand clearly that to you I told a lie 
when I said that Madaline’s mother was a poor relative of the 
duke’s — you know now what relationship there is between them. 
Even Lady Peters does not know the truth. She fancies that 
Madaline is the daughter of some friend of mine who, having 
fallen on evil days, has been glad to send her to me. 

“Knowing you well, Norman, the accomplishment of my 
scheme was not difficult. If I had brought Madaline tO you 
and introduced her, you might not have been charmed; the air 
of mystery about her attracted you. My warning against your 
caring for her would, I knew, also help to allure you. I was 
right in every way. I saw' that you fell in love wdth her at once 
— the first moment you saw her — and then I knew my revenge 
was secured. 

“I bought my husband the yacht on purpose that he might 
go away and leave me to work out my plans. I knew tliat he 
could not resist the temptatBOn I offered. T knew also that if 
he remained in Englaml he would want to know all about Mad- 
aline before he allowed you to marry her. If the marriage was 
to take place at all, it must be during his absence. You seemed. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 139 

of your own free will, Norman, to fall naturally into the web 
woven for you. 

“ I write easily, but I found it hard to be wicked — hard to see 
my lost love, my dear old companion, drift on to his ruin. 

“More than once I paused, longing to save you; more than 
once I drew back, longing to tell you all. But the spirit of re- 
venge within me was stronger than myself — my love had turned 
to hate. Yet I could not quite hate you, Norman — not quite. 
Once, when you appealed to my old friendship, Avhen you told 
me of your j^lans, I almost gave way. ‘ Norman!’ I cried, as you 
were leaving me; but when you turned again I was dumb. 

“ So I have taken my revenge. I, Philippa, Duchess of Hazle- 
wood, on this your wedding-day, reveal to you the first stain on 
the name of Arleigh — unvail the first blot on one of the noblest 
escutcheons in the land. You have married not only a low-born 
girl, but the daughter of a felon — a felon’s daughter is mistress 
of proud Beechwood! You who scorned Philippa L’Estrange, 
who had the cruelty to refuse the love of a woman who loved 
you — you who looked for your ideal in the clouds, have found 
it near a prison cell! The daughter of a felon will be the mis- 
tress of the grand old house where some of the noblest ladies- of 
the land have ruled - the daughter of a felon will be mother of 
the heirs of Arleigh. Could I have planned, prayed for, hoped 
for, longed for a sweeter revenge? 

“I am indifferent as to what you may do in return. I have 
lived for my revenge, and now that I have tasted it life is indif- 
ferent to me. You will, of course, write to complain to the 
duke, and he, wuth his honest indignation justly aroused, will 
perhaps refuse to see me again. I care not; my interest in life 
ended when my love died. 

“Let me add one thing more. Madaline herself has been de- 
ceived. I told her that you knew all her history, that I had 
kept notlnng from you, and that you lored her in spite of it. 
but that slie was never to mention it to you.” 

He read the letter with a burning flush on his face, which af- 
terward grew white as with the pallor of deatli; a red mist was 
before liis eyes, the sound of surging waters in his ears, his liearb 
beat loud and fast. Could it be true — oh, merciful Heaven, 
could it be true? At first he had a wild hope that it was a cruel 
jest that Philippa was playing with him on his wedding-day. 
It could not be true — his wdiole soul rose in rebellion against it. 
Heaven was too just, too merciful — it could not be. It was a 
jest. He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh — his lips 
trembled; it w^as simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding- 
day. 

Then, one by one — slowly, sadly, surely — a whole host of cir- 


140 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


cumstances returned to his mind, making confirmation strong. 
He remembered well — only too well — the scene in the balcon3^ 
He remembered the pale starlight, the light scarf thrown over 
Philippa’s shoulders, even the very perfume that came from the 
flowers in her hair; he remembered how her voice had trem- 
bled, how her face had shown in the faint evening light. When 
she had quoted the words of Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of 
Plvmouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own case — 
“Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” They came back 
to him with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair. She 
had loved him through all — this proud, beautiful, brilliant wo- 
man for whom men of highest rank had sighed in vain. And, 
knowing her pride, her haughtiness, he could guess exactly 
what her love had cost her, and that all that followed had been 
a mockery. On that night her love had changed to hate. On 
that night she had planned this terrible revenge. Her oftering 
of friendship had been a blind. He thought to himself that he 
had been foolish not to see it. A thousand circumstances pre- 
sented themselves to his mind. This, then, was why Madaline 
had so persistently — and, to his mind, so strangely — refused his 
love. Tlds was wdiy she had talked incessantly of the distance 
between them — of her' own unworthiness to be his wife. He 
had thought that she alluded merely to her poverty, whereas it 
was her birth and parentage she referred to. 

How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa had deceived them both 
— Philippa, his old friend and companion, his sister in all but 
name! He could see now a thousand instances in which Mada- 
line and himself had played at cross purposes — a thousand in- 
stances in which the poor girl had alluded to her parent’s sin, 
and he had thought she was speaking of her poverty. It was a 
cruel vengeance, for, before he had read the letter througli, he 
knew' that if the story were correct, she could be his w'ife in 
name only — that they must part. Poverty, obscurity, seemed as 
nothing now— but crime? Oh, Heaven, that his name and race 
should be so dishonored! If he had know'n the real truth, lio 
would have died rather than have uttered one word of love to 
her. 

The daughter of a felon — and he had brought her to Beech - 
grove as successor to a roll of noble women, each one of whom 
had been of noble birth! She w'as the daughter of a felon — no 
matter how fair, how graceful, how pure. For the first time the 
glory of Beechgrove was tarnished. But it would not be for 
long — it could not bo for long; she must not remain. The 
daugliter of a felon to be the mother of his children — ah, no, 
not if he went childless to the grave! Better that his name were 
extinct, better that the race of Arleigli should die out, than that 
his cliildren should be pointed at as children with tainted -blood! 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


141 


It could never be. He would expect the dead and gone x\rleighs 
to rise from their graves in utter horror, he would expect some 
terrible curse to fall on him, were so terrible a desecration to 
happen. They must part. The girl he loved with all the pas- 
sionate love of his heart, the fair young wife whom he wor- 
shiped, must go from him, and he must see her no more. She 
must be his wife in name only. 

He was young, and he loved her very dearly. His head fell 
forward on his breast, and as bitter a sob as ever left man’s lips 
died on his. His wife in name only! The sweet face, the ten- 
der lips were not for him — yet he loved her with the whole pas- 
sion and force of his soul. Then he raised his head — for he 
heard a sound, and knew that she was returning. Great drops 
of anguish fell from his brow — over his handsome face had come 
a terrible change; it had grown fierce with pain, haggard with 
despair, white with sorrow. 

Looking up, he saw her — she was at the other end of the gal- 
lery; he saw the tall, slender figure and the sweeping dress — he 
saw the white arms with their graceful contour, the golden hair, 
the radiant face — and he groaned aloud; he saw her looking up 
at the pictures as she passed slowly along — the ancestral Ar- 
leighs of whom he was so proud. If they could have spoken, 
those noble women, what would they have said to this daughter 
of a felon? 

She paused for a few minutes to look up at her favorite. Lady 
x\licia, and then she came up to him and stood before him in all 
the grace of her delicate loveliness, in all the pride of her dainty 
beauty. She was looking at the gorgeous Titian near him. 

“ Norman,” she said, “ the sun has turned those rubies into 
drops of blood — they looked almost terrible on the white throat. 
What a strange picture! What a tragical face!” 

Suddenly with outstretched arms she fell on her knees at his 
side. 

“ Oh, my darling, wh^-t has happened? What is the matter?” 

She had been away from him only half an hour, yet it seemed 
to him ages since he had watched her leave the gallery with a 
smile on her lips. 

“ What is it, my darling?” she cried again. “Dear Norman, 
vou look as though the shadow of death had passed over you. 
Wliat is it?” 

In another moment she had flung herself on his breast, clasped 
her arms round iiis neck, and was kissing his pale changed face 
as she had never done before. 

“Norman, my darling husband, you are ill,” she said — “ill, 
and you will not tell me. That is why you sent me away.” 

He tried to unclasp her arms, but she clung the more closely 
to him. 


142 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ You shall not senl me away. You wish to suffer in silence! 
Oh, my darling, my husband, do you forget that I am your 
wife, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health? You shall 
not suffer without my knowledge.” 

“ I am not ill, Madaline,” he said, with a low moan. *‘It is 
not that.” 

“ Then something has happened — you have been frightened.” 

He unclasped her arms from his neck — their caress was a tor- 
ture to him. 

“ My poor darling, my poor wife, it is far worse than that. 
No man has ever seen a more ghastly specter than I have seen 
of death in life.” 

She looked round in quick alarm. 

“A specter!” slie cried fearfully; and then something strange 
in his face attracted her attention. She looked at him. “Nor- 
man,” she said, slowly, “is it — is it something about me?” 

How was he to tell her? He felt that it would be easier to 
take her out into the glorious light of the sunset and slay her 
than kill her with the cruel words that he must speak. How 
was he to tell her? No physical torture could be so great as that 
which he must inflict; yet he would have given his life to save 
her from jDain. 

“It is — I am quite sure,” she declared, slowly — “something 
about me. Oh, Norman, wdiat is it? I have not been away 
from you long. Yet no change from fairest day to darkest 
night could be so great as the change in you since I left you. 
You will not tell me what it is — you have taken my arms from 
your neck — you do not love me!” 

“ Do not torture me, Madaline,” he said. “ I am almost mad. 
I cannot bear much more. ” 

“But what is it? What have I done? I who you send from 
you now am the same Madaline whom you married this morn- 
ing — whom you kissed half an hour since. Norman, I begin 
to think that I am in a terrible dream.”’ 

“I would to Heaven it were a dream. I am unnerved — un- 
manned — I have lost my strength, my courage, my patience, 
my hope. Oh, Madaline, how caul tell you?” 

The sight of his terrible agitation seemed to calm her; she 
took his hand in hers. 

“Do not think of me,” she said — “ think of yourself. lean 
bear what you can bear. Let me share your trouble, whatever 
it may be, my husband.” 

He looked at the sweet, pleading face. How could he dash 
the light and brightness from it? How could he slay her with 
the cruel story he had to tell. Then, in a low, hoarse voice, he 
said: 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


143 


*‘You must know all, and I cannot saj it. Bead this letter, 
Madaline, and then yoii will understand.’* 


CHAPTEE XXYIL 

Slowly, wonderingly, Lady Arleigh took the Duchess of 
Hazle wood’s letter from her husband’s hands and opened it. 

“Is it from the duchess?” she asked. 

“Yes, it is from the duchess,” replied her husband. 

He saw her sink slowly down upon a lounge. Above her, in 
the upper panes of the window beneath which they were sitting, 
were the armorial bearings of the family in richest hues of 
stained glass. The colors and shadows fell with strange effects 
on her white dress, great bars of purple and crimson crossing 
each other, and opposite to her hung the superb Titian, with 
the blood-red rubies on the white throat. 

Lord Arleigh watched Madaline as she read. Whatever 
might be the agony in his own heart, it was exceeded by hers. 
He saw the brightness die out of her face, the light fade from 
her eyes, the lips grow pale. But a few minutes before that 
young face had been bright with fairest beauty, eloquent with 
truest love, lit with passion and with poetry — now it was like a 
white mask. 

Slowly, and as though it was with difficulty that she under- 
stood, Lady Arleigh read the letter through, and then — she did 
not scream or cry out — she raised her eyes to his face. He saw 
in them a depth of human sorrow and human woe which words 
are powerless to express. 

So they looked at each other in passionate anguish. No 
words passed — of what avail were they? Each read the heart of 
the other. They knew that they must part. Then the closely- 
written pages fell to the ground, and Madaline’s hands clasped 
each other in helpless anguish. The golden head fell forward 
on her breast. He noticed that in her agitation and sorrow she 
did not cling to him as she had clung before — that she did not 
even touch him. She seemed by instinct to understand that she 
was his wife now in name only. 

So for some minutes they sat, while the sunset glowed in the 
west. He was the first to speak. 

“My dear Madaline,” he said, “my poor wife” — his voice 
seemed to startle her into new life and new pain — “I would 
rather have died than have given you this pain.” 

“I know it — I am sure of it,” she said, “but, oh, Norman, 
how can I release you?” 


144 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ There is happily no question about that/* he answered. 

He saw her rise from her seat and stretch out her arms. 

“ What have I done,” she cried, “ that 1 must suffer so cruel- 
ly? What have I done?” 

“ Madaline.” said Lord Arleigh, “ Ido not think that so cruel 
a fate has ever befallen any one as has befallen us. I do not be- 
lieve that any one has ever suffered so cruelly, my darling. If 
death had parted us, the trial would have been easier to bear.” 

She turned her sad eyes to him. 

“It is very cruel,” she said, with a shudder. “I did not 
think the duchess would be so cruel.” 

*“It is more than that — it is infamous!” he cried. “ It is ven- 
geance worthier of a fiend than of a woman.” 

“And I loved her so!” said the young girl, mournfully. 
“Husband, I will not reproach you — your love was chivalrous 
and noble; but why did you not let me speak freely to you? I 
declared to you that no doubt ever crossed my mind. I thought 
you knew all, though I considered it strange that you, so proud 
of your noble birth, should wish to marry me. I never imagined 
that you had been deceived. The duchess told me that you 
knew the whole history of my father’s crime, that you were 
familiar with every detail of it, but that you wished me never 
to mention it — never even ever so remotely to allude to it. I 
thought it strange, Norman, that one in your position should be 
willing to overlook so terrible a blot; but she told me your love 
for me was so great that you could not live without me. She 
told me even more — that I must try to make my own life so per- 
fect that the truest nobility of all, the nobility of virtue, might 
be mine.” 

“ Did she really tell you that?” asked Lord Arleigh wonder- 
ingly. 

“Yes; and, Norman, she said that you would discuss the 
question with me once, and once only — that would be on my 
wedding-day. On that day you would ask for and I should tell 
the whole history of my father’s crime; and after that it was to 
be a dead-letter, never to be named between us. ” 

“And you believed her?” he said. 

“Yes, as I believe you. Why should I have doubted her? 
My faith in her was implicit. Why should I have even thought 
you would repent? More than once I was on the point of run- 
ning away. But she would not let me go. She said that I must 
not be cruel to you — that you loved me so dearly that to lose 
me would prove a death-blow. So I believed her, and, against 
my will, staid on.” 

“ I wish you had told me this,” he said, slowly. 

She raised her eyes to his. ' 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


145 


“ You would not let me speak, Norman. I tried so often, 
dear, but you would not let me.” 

“I remember,” he acknowledged; “ but, oh, my darling, how 
little I knew what you had to say! I never thought that any- 
thing stood between us except your poverty.” 

They remained silent for a few minutes — such sorrow as theirs 
needed no words. Lord AiTeigh was again the first to speak. 

“ Madaline,” he said, “will you tell me all you remember of 
your life. ” 

“Yes; it is not much. It has been such a simple life, Nor- 
man, half made up of shadows. First, I can remember being a 
child in some far off woodland house. I am sure it was in the 
woods; for I remember the nuts growing on the trees, the 
squirrels, and the brown hares. I remember great masses of 
green foliage, a running brook, and the music of wild birds. I 
remember small latticed windows against which the ivy tapped. ~ 
My father used to come in with his gun slung across his shoul- 
ders — he was a very handsome man, Norman, but not kind to 
either my mother or me. My mother was then, as she is now, 
patient, kind, gentle, long-suffering. I have never heard her 
complain. She loved me with an absorbing love. I was her 
only comfort. I did my best to deserve her affection. I loved 
her too. I cannot remember that she ever spoke one unkind 
word to me, and I can call to mind a thousand instances of in- 
dulgence and kindness. I knew that she deprived herself of 
almost everything to give it to me. I have seen her eat dry bread 
patiently, while for me and my father there was always some 
little dainty. The remembrance of the happiness of my early 
life begins and ends with my mother. My memories of her are 
all pleasant.” She continued as though recalling her thoughts 
with difficulty. “ I can remember some one else. 1 do not know 
who or what he was, except that he was, I think, a doctor. He 
used to see me, and used to amuse me. Then there came a dark 
day. I cannot tell what happened, but after that day I never 
saw my friend again.” 

He was looking at her with wondering eyes. 

“And you remember no more than that about him, Mada- 
line?” 

“No,” she replied. “Then came a time,” she went on, 
“when it seemed to me that my mother spent all her days and 
nights in weeping. There fell a terrible shadow over us, and we 
removed. I have no recollection of the journey — not the faintest; 
but I can remember my sorrow at leaving the bright green 
woods for a dull, gloomy city lodging. My mother was skill my 
hope and comfort. After we came to London she insisted that, 
no matter what else went wrong I should have a good educa- 
tion; she toiled, saved, sufiered for me. ‘ My darling must be a 


146 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


lady/ she used to say. She would not let me work, though I 
entreated her with tears in my eyes. I used to try to deceive 
her even, bat I never could succeed. She loved me so, my poor 
mother. She would take my hands in hers and kiss them. 

‘ Such dainty hands, dear,’ she would say, ‘ must not be spoiled.’ 
After a great deal of trouble and expense, she contrived to get 
me an .engagement as governess-pupil in a lady’s school; there I 
did receive a good education. One failing of my mother always 
filled me with wonder — she used to fancy that people watched 
me. ‘ Has any one spoken to you, darling?’ she would .ask. 
‘Has any stranger seen you?’ I used to laugh, thinking it was 
parental anxiety; but it has struck me since as strange. Wliile 
I was at the ladies’ school my father committed the crime for 
which I — alas! —am suffering now.” 

“Will you tell me what the crime was?” requested Lord Ar- 
leigh. 

A dreary hopelessness, inexpressibly painful to see, came over 
her face, and a deep-drawn sigh broke from her lips. 

“I will tell you all about it,” she said — “ would to Heaven 
that I had done so before! My mother, many years ago, was in 
the service of Lady L’Estrange; she was her maid then. Miss 
L’Estrange married the Duke of Hazlew^ood, and, when my 
mother was in great difficulties, she went to the duchess to ask 
for employment. The duchess was always kind,” continued 
Madaline, “and she grew interested in my mother. She came 
to see her, and I was at home. She told me afterward that when 
she first saw me she conceived a liking for me. I know now that 
I was but the victim of her plot.” 

She stopped abruptly, but Lord Arleigh encouraged her. 

“Tell me all, Madaline,” he said, gently; “none of this is 
your fault, my i^oor wife. Tell me all.” 

“The duchess was very kind to my mother, and befriended 
her in many ways. She interested the duke in her case, and he 
promised to find employment for my unfortunate father, who 
went to his house to see him. Whether my father had ever done 
wrong before, I cannot tell. Sometimes I fear that he had done 
so, for no man falls suddenly into crime. In few words — oh, 
Norman, how hard they are to say! — what he saw in the duke’s 
mansion tempted him. He joined some burglars, and they robbed 
the house. My unfortunate father was found with his pockets 
filled with valuable jewelry. My mother would not let me read 
the history of the trial, but I learned the result — he was sen- 
tenced to ten years’ penal servitude.” 

She paused again; the dreary hopelessness of her face, the 
pain in her voice, touched him inexpressibly. 

“ None of this is your fault, my darling,” he said. “ Go on.” 

“Then,” she continued, “the duchess was kinder than ever to 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


147 


rny mother. She furnished her with the means of gaining her 
livelihood; she offered to finish my education and adopt mo. 
My mother was at first unwilling; she did not wish me to leave 
her. But the duchess said that her love was selfish — that it was 
cruel to stand in my light when such an offer was made. She 
consented and I, wondering much what my ultimate fate was to 
be, was sent to school in Paris. When I had been there for some 
time, the duke and duchess came to see me. I must not forget 
to tell you, Norman, that she saw me herself first privately. She 
said he was so forgetful that he would never remember 
having heard the name of Dornham. She added that the keep- 
ing of the secret was very important, for, if it became known, all 
her kind efforts in our favor must cease at once. I promised to 
be most careful. The duke and duchess arranged that I was to 
go home with them and live as the duchess’ companion. Again 
she Avarned me never upon any account to mention who I was, 
or anything about me. She called me the daughter of an old 
friend —and so I was, although that friend was a very humble 
one. From the first, Norman, she talked so much about you; 
you were the model of everything chivalrous and noble, the hero 
of a hundred pleasant stories. I had learned to love you long 
even before I saw you — to love you after a fashion, Norman, as a 
hero. I can see it all now. She laid the plot — we were the 
victims. I remember that the very morning on which you saw 
me first the duchess sent me into the trellised arbor; I was to 
wait there until she summoned me. Rely upon it, Norman, 
she also gave orders that you were to be shown into the morning- 
room, although she pretended to be annoyed at it. I can see all 

the plot now plainly. I can only say Oh, Norman, you and 

I were both blind! We ought to have seen through her scheme. 
Why should she have brought us together if she had not meant 
that we should love each other? What have we in common — I, 
the daughter of a felon; you, a nobleman, proud of your ancestry, 
proud of your name? Oh, Norman, if I could but die here at 
your feet, and save you from myself !” 

Even as she spoke she sank sobbing, nolonger on to his breast, 
no longer with her arms clasped round his neck, but at his 
feet. 

He raised her in his arms — for he loved her with passionate 
love. 

“Madaline,” he said, in a low voice, do not make my task 
harder for me. That which I have to do is indeed bitter to me 
— do not make it harder.” 

His appeal touched her. For his sake she must try to be 
strong. 

Slowly he looked up at the long line of noblemen and women 

whose faces shone down upon him; slowly he looked at the 


148 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


graceful figure and bowed head of his wife, the daughter of a 
felon — the first woman who had ever entered those walls with 
even the semblance of a stain upon her name. As he looked 
at her the thought came to him that, if his housekeeper had told 
him that sheiiad inadvertently placed such a person — the daugh- 
ter of a felon — in his kitchen, he would never have rested until 
she had been sent away. 

lie must part from her — this lovely girl-wife whom he loved 
with such passionate love. The daughter of a criminal could 
not reign at Beechgrove. If the parting cost his life and hers 
it must take place. It was cruel. The strong man trembled 
with agitation; his lips quivered, his face was pale as death. 
He bent over his weeping wife. 

“ Madaline,” he said, gently, “I do not understand the ways 
of destiny. Why you and I have to suffer this torture I cannot 
say. I can see nothing in our lives that deserves such punish- 
ment. Heaven knows best. Why we have met and loved, only 
to undergo such anguish, is a puzzle I cannot solve. There is 
only one thing plain to me, and that is that we must part.” 

He never forgot how she sprang away from him, her colorless 
face raised to his. 

“Part, Norman!” she cried. “We cannot part now; I am 
your wife!” 

“I know it; but we must part.” 

“Part!” repeated the girl. “We cannot; the tie that binds 
us cannot be sundered so easily.” 

“My poor Madaline, it must be.” 

She caught his hand in hers. 

“You are jesting, Norman. We cannot be separated — we are 
one. Do you forget the words — ‘for better for Avorse,’ ‘till 
death us do part?’ You frighten me!” And she shrank from 
him with a terrible shudder. 

“It must be as I have said,” declared the unhappy man. “I 
have been deceived — so have you. We have to suffer for an- 
other’s sin.” 

“We may suffer,” she said, dully, “but we cannot part. You 
cannot send me away from you.” 

“ I must,” he persisted. “ Darling, I speak with deepest love 
and pity, yet with unwavering firmness. You cannot think that, 
with that terrible stain resting on you, you can take your place 
here.” 

“ But I am your wife!” she cried, in wild terror. 

“You are my wife,” he returned, with quivering lips; “but 
you must remain so in name only.” He paused abruptly, for it 
seemed to him that the words burned his lips as they passed 
them. “My wife,” he muttered, “in name only,” 

With a deep sob she stretched out her arms. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


140 


“ But I love you, Norman — you must not send me away! I 
love you — I shall die if I have to leave you!” 

The words seemed to linger on her lips. 

“ My daiiirg,” he said, gently, “ it is even harder for me than 
for you.” 

“ No, no,” she cried, “for I love you so dearly. Norman — bet- 
ter than my life! Darling, my whole heart went out to you long 
ago —you cannot give it back to me.” 

“If it kills you and myself too,” he declared, hoarsely, “I 
must send you away.” 

“Send me away? Oh, no, Norman, not away! Let me stay 
with you, husband, darling. We were married only this morn- 
ing. My place is here by your side — I cannot go.” 

Looking away from her, with those passionate accents still 
ringing in his ears, his only answer was: 

“Family honor demands it.” 

“Norman,” she implored, “listen tome, dear! Do not send 
me away from you. I will be so good, so devoted. I will ful- 
fill my duties so well. I will bear myself so worthily that no one 
shall remember anything against me; they shall forget my un- 
happy birth, and think only that you have chosen well. Oh, 
Norman, be merciful to me! Leaving you would be a living 
death!” 

“You cannot suffer more than I do,” he said — “and I would 
give my life to save you pain; but, my darling, I cannot be so 
false to the traditions of my race, so false to the honor of my 
house, so untrue to my ancestors and to myself, as to ask yon 
to stay here. There has never been a blot on our name. The 
annals of our family are pure and stainless. I could not ask you 
to remain here and treat you as my wife, even to save my life!” 

“I have done.no W'rong, Norman; why should you punish me 
so cruelly?” 

“No, my darling, you have done no wrong — and the punish- 
ment is more mine than yours. I lose the wife whom I love most 
dearly — I lose my all.” 

“And what do I lose?” she moaned. 

“Not so much as I do, because you are the fairest and sweet- 
est of women. You shall live in ail honor, Madaline. You shall 
never suffer social degradation, darling — the wdiole world shall 
know that I hold you blameless; but you can be my wife in 
name only.” 

She was silent for a few minutes, and then she held out her 
arms to him again. 

“Oh, my love, relent!” she cried. “Do not be so hard on me 
— indeed, I have done no wrong. Be merciful! I am your wife; 
your name is so mighty, so noble, it will overshadow me. Who 
notices the weed that grows under the shadow of the kingly oak? 


150 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Oh, my husband, let me stay! I love you so dearlv — let me 
stay!” 

The trial was so hard and cruel that great drops fell from his 
brow and his lips trembled. 

‘*My darling, it is utterly impossible. We have been de- 
ceived. The consequences of that deceit must be met. I owe 
duties to the dead as well as to the living. I cannot transgress 
the rules of my race. Within these time-honored walls no wo- 
man can remain who is not of stainless lineage and stainless re- 
pute. Do not urge me further. ” 

“Norman,” she said, in a trembling voice, “you are doing 
wrong in sending me away. You cannot outrage "Heaven’s laws 
with impunity. It is Heaven’s law that husband and wife 
should cleave together. You cannot break it.” 

“I have no wish to break it. I say simply that I shall love 
you until I die, but that you must be my wife in name only.” 

“ It is bitterly hard,” she observed; and then she looked up 
at him suddenly. “Norman,” she said, “let me make one last 
appeal to you. I know the stigma is terrible — I know that the 
love-story must be hateful to you — I know that the vague sense 
of disgrace which clings to you even now is almost more than 
you can bear; but, my darling, since you say you love me so 
dearly, can you not bear this trial for my sake, if in everything 
else I please you— if I prove myself a loving, trustful, truthful 
wife, if I fulfill all my duties so as to reflect honor on you, if I 
prove a worthy mistress of your household?” 

“I cannot,” he replied, hoarsely; but there must have been 
something in his face from which she gathered hope, for she 
went on, with a ring of passionate love in her voice. 

“If, after we had been married, I had found out that you had 
concealed something from me, do you think that I should have 
loved you less?” 

“I do not tliink you would, Madaline; but the present case is 
different— entirely different; it is not for my own sake, but for 
the honor of my race. Better a thousand times that my name 
should die out than that upon it there should be the stain of 
crime!” 

“But, Norman-— this is a weak argument, I know — a w'oman’s 
argument — still, listen to it, love^ — who would know my secret 
if it were well kept?” 

“None; but I should know it,” he replied, “and that would 
be more than sufficient. Better for all the world to know than 
for me. I would not keep such a secret. I could not. It would 
hang over my head like a drawn sword, and some day the sword 
would fall. My children, should Heaven send any to me, might 
grow up, and then, in the height of some social or political 
struggle, when man often repeats against his fellow man all that 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


151 


he knows of the vilest and the worst, there might be thrown in- 
to Iheir faces the fact that they were descended from a felon. It 
must not be; a broken heart is hard to bear — injured honor is 
perhaps harder.” 

She drew up her slender figure to its full height, her lovely 
face glowed with a light he did not understand. 

“You may be quite right,” she said. “I cannot dispute what 
you say. Your honor may be a sufficient reason for throwing 
aside the wife of less than twelve hours, but I cannot see it. I 
cannot refute what you have said, but my heart tells me you are 
wrong.” 

“Would to Heaven that I thought the same!” he rejoined, 
quickly. “But I understand the difficulties of the case, my 
poor Madaline, and you do not.” 

She turned away with a low, dreary sigh, and the light died 
from her face. 

“Madaline,” said Lord Arleigh, quietly, “do not think, my 
darling, that you suffer most — indeed, it is not so. Think how 
I love you — think how precious you are to me — and then ask 
yourself if it is no pain to give you up.” 

“I know it is painful,” she continued, sadly; “but, Norman, 
if the decision and choice rested with me as they do with you, 
1 should act differently. ” 

“I would. Heaven knows, if I could, he said, slowly. 

“Such conduct is not just to me,” she continued, her face 
flushing with the eagerness of her words. “I have done no 
wrong, no harm, yet I am to be driven from your house and 
home — I am to be sent away from you, divorced in all but 
name. I say it is not fair, Norman — not just. All my woman- 
hood rises in rebellion against such a decree. What will the 
world say of me? That I was weighed in the balance and found 
wanting — t^iat I was found to be false or light, due doubtless to 
my being lowly born. Do you think I have no sense of honor 
— no wish to keep my name and fame stainless? Could you do 
me a greater wrong, do you think, than to put me away, not 
twelve hours after our marriage, like one utterly unworthy?” 

He made no answer. She went on in her low, passionate, 
musical voice. 

“When I read in history the story of Anne of Cleves, I 
thought it cruel to be sought in marriage, brought over from 
anothe^ land, looked at, sneered at, and dismissed; but, Nor- 
man, it seems to me her fate was not so cruel as mine.” 

“ You are wrong,” he cried. “ I hold you in all reverence, in 
all honor, in deepest respect. You are untouched by the dis- 
grace attached to those nearest to you. It is not that. You 
know that, even while I say we must part, I love you from the 
very depths of my heart.” 


152 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY, 


“ I can say no more,” she moaned, wringing her hands. My 
own heart, my woman’s instinct, tells me you are v/rong. I 
cannot argue with you, nor can I urge anything more.’' 

She turned from him. He would have given much to take 
her into his arms, and kissing her, hid her stay. 

“You remember the old song, Madaline? 

“ ‘ I could not love thee, dear, so much. 

Loved I not honor more.’ 

If I could be false to the dead, Madaline, I should be untrue to 
the living. That I am not so is your security for my faith. If 
I could be false to the traditions of my race, I could be false to 
my vows of love.” 

“I can say uo more — I can urge no more. You are a man — 
wise, strong, brave. I submit.” 

It was a cruel fate. He looked round on his pictured ances- 
tors. Would they have suffered, have sacrificed as much for the 
honor of their house as he was about to sacrifice now? Yes, he 
knew they would, for love of race and pride of name had al- 
ways been unspeakably dear to them. 


CHAPTEE XXVin. 

Lord Arleigh raised his head from his breast. His wife was 
kneeling sobbing at his feet. 

“Norman,” she said, in a broken voice, “I yield, I submit. 
You know best, dear. In truth, I am not worthy to be your 
wife. I urge no claim on you; but, my darling, must I leave 
you? You are the very light of my life, heart of my heart, soul 
of my soul — must I leave you? Could I not remain here as 
your servant, your slave, the lowliest in your house — somewhere 
near, where I may hear the tones of your voice, the sound of 
your footsteps — where I may stand sometimes at the window 
and see you ride away — where I may render you little atten- 
tions such as lovirg wives render? Oh, Norman, be merciful, 
and grant me that at least!” 

“My darling, I cannot — do not tempt me. You do not un- 
derstand. I love you with a fierce, passionate love. If you 
were near me, I should be compelled to show that love to you 
every hour of the day — to treat you as my dear and honored 
wife. If you were near me, I might forget my resolves and re- 
member only my love.” 

“No one should know,” she whispered, “that I was your 
wife. I should take the guise of the humblest servant in the 
place. No one should know, love. Oh, darling, let it be sol” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


153 


She saw great drops of agony on his brow; she saw a world 
of pain in his eyes which alarmed her. 

“It cannot be,” he replied, hoarsely. “You must urge me 
no more — you are torturing me.” 

Then she rose, humbly enough, and turned away. 

“I will say no more, Norman. Now do with me what you 
please.” 

Tliere was silence for a few minutes. The sun was sinking 
low in the w^estern sky, the chirp of the birds was growing faint 
in the trees. She raised her colorless face to his. 

“I submit, Norman,” she said. “You have some plan to 
propose. Do with me just as you will.” 

It was cruel — no crueler fate had ever fallen to a man’s lot — 
but honor obliged him to act as he did. He took her hand in 
his. 

“Some day, dear wife,” he said, “you will understand w’hat 
suffering this step has cost me.” 

“ Yes,” she murmured, faintly; “ I may understand in time.” 

“While I have been sitting here,” he went on, “ I have been 
thinking it all over, and I have come to a decision as to what 
will be best for you and for me. You are Lady Arleigh of 
Beechgrove — you are my wife; you shall have all the honor and 
respect due to your position.” 

She shuddered as though the words were a most cruel mock- 
ery. 

“You will honor,” she questioned, bitterly, “the daughter of 
a felon?” 

“I will honor ray wife, who has been deceived even more 
cruelly than myself,” he replied. “I have thought of a plan,” 
he continued, “ which can be easily carried out. On our estate 
not twenty miles from here — there is a little house called the 
Dower House — a house w'here the dowagers of the family have 
generally resided. It is near Winiston, a small country town. 
A housekeeper and two servants live in the house now, and keep 
it in order. You will be happy there, my darling, I am sure, as 
far as is possible. I will see that you have everything you need 
or require.” 

She listened as one who hears but dimly. 

“You have no objection to raise, have you, Madaline?” 

“No,” she replied, “it matters little where I live; I only 
pray that my life may be short.” 

“Hush, my darling. You pain me.” 

“ Oh, Norman, Norman,” she cried, “ what will they think of 
me — what will they say — your servants, your friends?” 

“We must not trouble about that,” said Norman; “we must 
not pause to consider what the world will say. We must do 
what we think is right.” 


154 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He took out his watch and looked at it. 

“ It is eight o’clock,” he said; “ we shall have time to drive to 
Winiston to-night.” 

There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the blue eyes 
raised to his. 

“ I understand,” she said, quietly; “you do not wish that 
the daughter of a felon should sleep, even for one night, under 
your roof.” 

“You pain me, and you pain yourself; but it is, if you will 
hear the truth, my poor Mad aline, just as you say. Even for 
these ancient walls I have such reverence.” 

“Since my presence dishonors them,” she said, quietly, “I 
will go. Heaven will judge between us, Norman. I say that 
you are wrong. If I am to leave your house, I should like to 
go at once. I will go to my room and prepare for the journey.” 

He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew that, if she 
made another appeal to him, he could not resist the impulse to 
clasp her in his arms, and at the cost of what he thought his 
honor to bid her stay. 

She lingered before him, beautiful, graceful, sorrowful. 

“Is there anything more you would like to say to me?” she 
asked, with sad humility. 

“ I dare not,” he uttered, hoarsely; “I cannot trust myself.” 

He watched her as with slow, graceful steps fehe passed down 
the long gallery, never turning her fair face or golden head back 
to him, her white robes trailing on the parquetry hoor. When 
she had reached the end, he saw her draw aside the hangings 
and stand for a minute looking at the pictured faces of the Ar- 
leighs; then she disappeared, and he was left alone. 

He buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly. 

“I could curse the woman who has wrought this misery!” he 
exclaimed, presently. 

And then the remembrance of Philippa, as he had known her 
years before — Philippa as a child, Philippa, his mother’s favor- 
ite — restrained him. 

“Perhaps I too was to blame,” he thought; “she would not 
have taken such cruel vengeance had I been more candid.” 

Lady Arleigh went to her room. The pretty traveling -cos- 
tume lay where she had left it; the housekeeper had not put 
away anything. Hastily taking off her white dress and removing 
the jewels from her neck, and the flowers from her hair, Mada- 
line placed them aside, and then having attired herself for the 
journey, she went down stairs, meeting no one. 

Some little surprise was created among the servants when 
orders came for the carriage to be got ready. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


155 


“ Going out at this time of night. What can it mean?” asked 
one of them. 

“ They are going to the Dower House,” answered a groom. 

“Ah, then his lordship and lier ladyship will not remain at 
the Abbey! How strange! But there — rich people have nothing 
to do but indulge in whims and caprices!” said the under house- 
maid, who was immediately frowned down by her superiors in 
office. 

Not a word was spoken by husband and wife as Lady Arleigh 
took her seat in the carriage. Whatever she felt was buried in 
her own breast. Her face shone marble- white underneath her 
vail, and her eyes were bent downward. Never a word did she 
speak as the carriage drove slowly through the park, where the 
dews were falling and the stars were bright. 

Once her husband turned to her and tried to take her hand in 
his, but she drew back. 

“It will be better not to talk, Norman,” she said. “I can 
bear it best in silence.” 

So they drove on in unbroken quietude. The dew lay glisten- 
ing on the grass and trees; all nature was hushed, tranquil, 
sweet, and still. It was surely the strangest drive that husband « 
and wife had ever taken together. More than once, noting the 
silent, graceful figure. Lord Arleigh was tempted to ask Mada- 
line to fly with him to some foreign land, where they could live 
and die unknown — more than once he was tempted to kiss the 
beautiful lips and say to her, “Madaline, you shall not leave 
me;” but the dishonor attaching to his name caused him to re- 
main silent. 

They had a rapid drive, and reached Winiston House — as it 
was generally called — before eleven. Great was the surprise and 
consternation excited by so unexpected an arrival. The house 
was in the charge of a widow wdiose husband had been the late 
lord’s steward. She looked somewhat dubiously at Lord Ar- 
leigh, and then at his companion, when they had entered. Mada- 
line never opened her lips. Lord Arleigh w'as strangely pale 
and confused. 

“ Mrs. Burton,” he said, “ I can hardly imagine that you have 
heard of my marriage. This is my wife — Lady Arleigh.” 

All the woman’s doubt and hesitation vanished then — she be- 
came all attention; but Lord Arleigh inwardly loathed his fate 
when he found himself compelled to offer explanations that he 
would have given worlds to avoid. 

“ I am not going to remain here myself,” he said, in answer 
to the inquiries about rooms and refreshments. “ Lady Arleigh 
will live at Winiston House altogether; and, as you have always 
served the family faithfull and well, I should like you to remain 
in her service. ” 


156 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


The woman looked up at him in such utter bewilderment and 
surprise that he felt sonaewhat afraid of what she might say; he 
therefore hastened to add: 

“Family matters that concern no one but ourselves compel 
me to make this arrangement. Lady Aiieigh will be mistress 
now of Winiston House. She will have a staff of servants here. 
You can please yourself about remaining — either as housekeeper 
or not — just as you like.” 

“ Of course, my lord, I shall be only too thankful to remain; 
but it seems so very strange ” 

Lord Arleigh held up his hand. 

“Hush!” he said. “A well-trained servant finds nothing 
strange.” 

The woman took the hint and retired. Lord Arleigh turned to 
say farewell to his wife. He found her standing, white and tear- 
less, by the window. 

“Oh, my darling,” he cried, “we must now part! Yet how 
can I leave you — so sad, so silent, so despairing? Speak to me, 
my own love — one word — just one word.” 

Her woman’s heart, so quick to pity, was touched by his 
prayer. She smiled as sad, as sweet a smile as ever was seen on 
woman’s lips. 

“ I shall be better in time, Norman,” she said, “ and shall not 
always be sad.” 

“ There are some business arrangements which must be made,” 
he continued, hurriedly — “ but it will be better for us not to 
meet again just yet, Madaline — I could not bear it. I will see 
that all is arranged for your comfort. You must have every 
luxury and •” 

“Luxury!” she repeated, mockingly. “Why, I would rather 
be the sorriest beggar that ever breathed than be myself ! 
Luxury! You mock me. Lord Arleigh.” 

“You will be less bitter against me in time, my darling,” he 
said. “ I mean just what 1 say — that you will have everything 
this world can give you ” 

“Except love and happiness,” she interposed. 

“ Love you have, sweet; you have mine — the fervent, true, 
honest, deep love of my heart and soul. Happiness comes in 
time to all who do their duty. Think of Carlyle’s words — ‘Say 
unto all kinds of happiness, “ lean do without thee ” — with self- 
renunciation life begins.’ ” 

“ Carlyle had no such fate as mine in his thoughts,” she said, 
“ when he wrote that. But, Lord Arleigh, I do not wish to com- 
plain. I am sorry that I have interrupted you. I have accepted 
my fate. Say all you wish — I will be silent. ” 

“ I have only to add, my darling, that if money, luxury, com- 
fort can give you happiness, you shall have them all. You shall 


WIFE IN NAME ONLT. 


157 


Lave respect and honor too, for I will take care that the whole 
w’orld knows that this separation arises from no fault of yours. 
Promise me, darling wife — oh, Heaven help me, how hard it is! 
— promise me, when the first smart of the pain is over, that you 
will try to be happy,” 

She bent her head, but spoke no word. 

“Promise me too, Madaline, that, if sickness and sorrow 
should come to you, you will send for me at once.” 

“ I promise,” she said. 'f 

“ A few words more, and I have done. Tell me what cours^ 
you wish me to pursue toward the duchess.” 

“ I have no wish in the matter,” she replied, directly, “ She 
was kind to me once; for the sake of that kindness I forgive her. 
She forgot that I must suffer in her wish to punish you. I shall 
leave her to Heaven.” 

“And I,” he said, “will do the same; voluntarily I will never 
see her or speak to her again.” 

There remained for him only to say farewell. He took her 
little white hand; it was as cold as death. 

“ Farewell, my love,” he said — “ farewell!” 

He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as he would 
have kissed the face of a dead woman whom he loved; and then 
he was gone. 

Like one in a dream, she heard the wheel of a carriage rolling 
away. She stretched out her hands with a faint cry. 

“ Norman — my husband — my love!” she called; but from 
the deep silence of the night there came no response. He was 
gone. 

Madaline passed the night in watching the silent skies. Mrs. 
Burton, after providing all that was needful, had retired quickly 
to rest. She did not think it “good manners” to intrude upon 
her ladyship. 

All night Madaline watched the stars, and during the course 
of that night the best part of her died — youth, love, hope, 
happiness. Strange thoughts came to her — thoughts that she 
could hardly control. Why was she so cruelly punished? What 
had she done? She had read of wicked lives that had met with^ 
terrible endings. She had read of sinful men and wicked women 
whose crimes, even in this world, had been most bitterly pun- 
ished. Slie had read of curses following sin. But what had she 
done? No woman’s lot surely had ever been so bitter. She 
could not understand it, while the woman who had loved her 
husband, who had practiced fraud and deceit, and lied, went 
unpunished. 

Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did not love her. 
Daughter of a felon as she — Madaline— was — poor, lowly, ob- 
scure — he had given her his heart, although he could never 


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make her the mistress of his home. There was some compensa- 
tion for human suffering, some equality in the human lot, after 
all. She would be resigned. There were lots in life far worse 
than hers. What if she had learned to love Norman, and he 
had never cared for her? "What if she had learned to love him, 
and had found him less noble than he was? What if, in the 
bitterness of his disappointment and passion, he had vented his 
anger upon her? After all, she could not but admire his sense 
of honor, his respect for his name, his devotion to his race; she 
could not find fault with his conduct, although it had cost her 
/ so dear. 

“I think,” she admitted to herself, ‘‘that in his place I 
should have done the same thing. If my parent’s crime has 
brought sorrow and disgrace to me, who have no name, no fame, 
no glory of race to keep up, what must it have brought to him? 
In his place I should have done as he has done.” 

Then, after a time, she clasped her hands. 

“I will submit,” she said. “I will leave my fate to Provi- 
dence.” 

When morning dawned she went to her room; she did not 
wish the household to know that she had sat up and watched 
the night through. 

Once out of the house. Lord Arleigh seemed to realize for the 
first time what had happened; with a gesture of despair he 
threw himself back in the carriage. The footman came to him. 

“ Where to, my lord — to Beechgrove?” 

“ No,” replied Lord Arleigh — “to the railway station. I want 
to catch the night-mail for London.” 

Lord Arleigh was just in time for the train. The footman 
caught a glimpse of his master's face as the train went ofl* — it 
was white and rigid. 

“ Of all the weddings in this world, well, this is the queer- 
est!” he exclaimed to himself. 

When he reached Beechgrove, he told his fellow-servants 
what had happened, and many were the comments offered about 
the marriage that was yet no marriage — the wedding that was 
♦now’edding — the husband and wife who were so many miles 
apart. What could it mean? 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

Three days after Lord Arleigh’s most inauspicious marriage, 
the Duchess of Hazlewood sat in her drawing-room alone. 
Those three days had changed her terribly; her face had lost its 
bloom, the light had died from her dark eyes, there were great 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


159 


lines of pain round her lips. She sat with her hands folded 
listlessly, her eyes, full of dreamy sorrow, fixed on the moving 
foliage of the woods. Presently Lady Peters entered with an 
open newspaper in her hand. 

“Philippa, my dear,” she said, “lam very uncomfortable. 
Should you think this paragraph refers to Lord Arleigh? It 
seems to do so — yet I cannot believe it.” 

The deadly pallor that was always the sign of great emotion 
with the duchess spread now even to her lips. 

“ What does it say?” she asked. 

Lady Peters held the paper out to her; but her hands trem- 
bled so that she could not take it. 

“ I cannot read it,” she said, wearily. “Bead it to me.’* 

And then Lady Peters read: 

“ Seandal in High Life. — Some strange revelations are shortly 
expected in aristocratic circles. A few days since a noble lord, 
bearing one of the most ancient titles in England, was married. 
The marriage took place under circumstances of great mystery; 
and the mystery has been increased by the separation of bride 
and bridegroom on their wedding-day. What has led to a sepa- 
ration is at present a secret, but it is expected that in a few days 
all particulars will be known. At present the affair is causing a 
great sensation.” 

A fashionable paper which indulged largely in personalities, 
also had a telling article on Lord Arleigli’s marriage. No names 
were mentioned, but the references were unmistakable. A pri- 
vate marriage, followed by a separation on the same day, was 
considered a fair mark for scandal. This also Lady Peters read, 
and the duchess listened with white, trembling lips. 

“ It must refer to Lord Arleigh,” said Lady Peters. 

“ It cannot,” was the rejoinder. “He was far too deeply in 
love with his fair-faced bride to leave her.” 

“I never did quite approve of that marriage,” observed Lady 
Peters. 

“ The scandal cannot be about him,” declared the duchess. 
“ We should have heard if there had been anything wrong.” 

The next day a letter was handed to her. She recognized the 
handwriting — it was Lord Arleigh’s. She laid the note down, 
not daring to read it before Lady Peters. What had he to say 
to lier? 

When she was alone she opened it. 

“You will be pleased to hear, duchess, that your scheme has 
entirely succeeded. You have made two innocent people who 
have never harmed you as wretched as it is possible for human 
beings to be. In no respect has your vengeance failed. I — 


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your old friend, playmate, brother, the son of your mother’s 
dearest friend — have been made miserable for life. Your re- 
venge was well chosen. You knew that, how’ever I might wor- 
ship Madaline, my wife, however much I might love her, she 
could never be mistress of Beechgrove, she could never be the 
mother of my children; you knew that, and therefore I say your 
revenge was admirably chosen. It were useless to comment on 
your wickedness, or to express the contempt I feel for the 
woman who could deliberately plan such evil and distress. I 
must say this, however. All friendship and acquaintance be-^ 
tween us is at an end. You will be to me henceforward an en-* 
tire stranger. I could retaliate. I could write and tell your 
husband, who is a man of honor, of the unworth3' deed you 
have done; but I shall not do that — it would be unmanly. Be- 
fore my dear wife and I parted, we agreed that the punishment 
of your sin should be left to Heaven. So I leave it. To a 
woman unworthy enough to plan such a piece of baseness, it 
will be satisfaction sufficient to know that her scheme has suc- 
ceeded. Note the words ‘ my wife and I parted ’ — parted, never 
perhaps to meet again. She has all my love, all my heart, all 
my unutterable respect and deep devotion; but, as you know, 
she can never be mistress of my house. May Heaven forgive 
you. Akleigh.” 

She could have borne with his letter if it had been filled with 
the wildest invictives — if he had reproached her, even cursed her; 
his dignified forbearance, his simjile acceptance of the wrong 
she had done him, she could not tolerate. 

She laid down the letter. It was all over now — the love for 
which she would have given her life, the friendship that had 
once been so true, the vengeance that had been so carefully 
planned. She had lost his love, his friendship, his esteem. She 
could see him no more. He despised her. There came to her 
a vision of w’hat she might have been to him had things been 
different — his friend, adviser, counselor — the woman upon whom 
he would have looked as the friend of his chosen wife — the 
woman whom, after all, he loved best — his sister, his truest con- 
fidante. All this she might have been but for her revenge. She 
had forfeited it all now. Her life would be spent as though he 
did not exist; and there was no one but herself to blame. 

Still she had had her revenge; she smiled bitterly to herself 
as she thought of that. She had punished him. The beauti- 
ful face grew pale, and the dark eyes shone through a mist of 
tears. 

“I am not hardened enough,” she said to herself, mockingly, 

“ to be quite happy over an evil deed. I want something more 
of wickedness in my composition.” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


161 


She parried skillfully all Lady Peters’ questions; she pro- 
fessed entire ignorance of all that bad happened. People ap- 
pealed to her as Lord Arleigh’s friend. They asked her: 

“What does this mean? Lord Arleigh was married quietly, 
and seperated from his wife the same day. What does it 
mean?” 

“ I cannot tell, but you may rely upon it that a reasonable ex- 
planation of the circumstanes will be forthcoming,” she ’would 
reply. “Lord Arleigh is, as 'we all know, an honorable man, 
and I knew his wife.” 

“But what can it mean?” the questioners would persist. 

“I cannot tell,” she would answer, laughingly. “I only 
know that we must give the matter the best interi)retation we 
can.” 

So she escaped; and no one associated the Duchess of Hazle- 
wood with Lord Arleigh’s strange marriage. She knew that 
when her husband returned she would have to give some kind 
of explanation; but she w’as quite indifferent about that. Her 
life, she said to herself, was ended. 

When the duke did come home, after a few pleasant weeks on 
the sea, the first thing he heard was the story about Lord Ar- 
leigh. It astounded him. His friend Captain Austin related it 
to him as soon as he had landed. 

“ Whom did you say he married?” inquired the mystified 
duke. 

“Kumorsaid at first that it was a distant relative of yours,” 
replied the captain, “ afterward it proved to be some young 
lady whom he had met at a small watering-place.” 

“ Wiiat was her name? Wlio was she? It was no relative of 
mine; I have very few; I have no young female relative at all.” 

“ No— that was all a mistake; I cannot tell you how it arose. 
He married a lady of the name of Dornham.” 

“Dornham!” said the puzzled nobleman. “The name is not 
unfamiliar to me. Dornham— ah, I remember!” 

He said no more, but the captain saw a grave expression come 
over his handsome face, and it occurred to him that some un- 
pleasant thought occurred to his companion’s mind. 


CHAPTEK XXX. 

One of the first questions, after his return, that the Duke of 
Hazlewood put to his wife ’was about Lord Arleigh. She looked 
at Iiim with a careless smile. 

“Am I my brother's keeper?” she asked. 

“ Certainry not, Philippa; but, considering that Arleigh has 


162 


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been as a brother to you all these years, you must take some in- 
terest in him. Is this story of his marriage true?” 

“True?” she repeated. “Why, of course it is — perfectly 
true! Do you not know whom he has married?” 

“lam half afraid to ask — half afraid to find that my suspi- 
cions have been realized.” 

“ He has married my companion,” said the duchess. “I have 
no wish to blame him; I will say nothing.” 

“It is a great pity that he ever saw her,” observed the duke, 
warmly. “From all I hear, the man’s life is wrecked.” 

“I warned him,” said Philippa, eagerly. “I refused at first 
to introduce her to him. I told him that prudence and caution 
were needful.” 

“ How came it about then, Philippa?” 

The duchess shrugged her shoulders. 

“There is a fate, I suppose, in these things. He saw her one 
day when I was out of the way, and, according to his own ac- 
count, fell in love with her on the spot. Be that as it may, he 
was determined to marry her.” 

“It seems very strange,” said the Duke of Hazlewood, mus- 
ingly. “ I have never known him to do anything ‘queer’ be- 
fore.” 

“ He can never say that I did not warn him,” she remarked, 
carelessly. 

“But it was such a wretched marriage for him. Who was 
she, Philippa? I have never made many inquiries about her.” 

“I would really rather not discuss the question,” said the 
duchess; “ it has no interest for me now. Norman and I have 
quarreled. In all probability we shall never be friends again. ” 

“All through this marriage?” interrogated the duke. 

“All through this marriage,” repeated his wife — “and I 
know no subject that irritates me so much. Please say no more 
about it, Vere.” 

“I should like to know who the girl is,” he urged. “You 
have never told me.” 

“I shall be jealous of her in a few minutes!” exclaimed Phi- 
lippa. “Already she has sundered an old friendsliip that I 
thought would last forever; and now, directly you return, you 
can talk of no one else.” 

“I should like to see you jealous,” said the duke, who w^as 
one of the most unsuspicious of men. 

She smiled; yet there came to her a sharp, bitter memory of 
the night on the balcony when she had been jealous of the ideal 
woman, the unknown love wdiom Norman had sketched for 
her. 

■ The duke, however, was pertinacious; he could not give up 
the subject. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


103 


*‘You told me,” be resumed, “that she Avas the daughter of 
an old friend of yours named Dorubam — and it seems to me, 
Philippa, that I have some kind of remembrance of that name, 
which is far from pleasant.'’ 

With an air of resignation the duciiess rose from her seat.’ 

“I am tired, Yere,” she said, “quite tired of the subject. 
Yet I ought not to be selfish. Of course, the incident is all new 
to 3’ou — you have been away from all kinds of news; to us it is 
•an old, worn-out story. Lord Arleigh and I quarreled and part- 
ed because of his marriage, so you may imagine it is not a very 
attractive subject to me.” 

“Well, I will say no more about it, but I am sincerely sorry, 
Philippa. Of all our friends, I like Lord Aileigli best; and I 
shall decidedly refuse to quarrel with him. His marriage is his 
own affair, not mine.” 

“Still, you cannot make a friend of the man whom I decline 
to know,” she rejoined, hurriedly. 

“Certainly not, if you place the matter in such a light,” he 
said, gravely. “I shall always consider it my pleasure and du- 
ty to consult you on such points. I will call no man my friend 
whom you dislike.” 

So, for the time, all danger was tided over; the duke saw that 
the subject annoyed his wife, and did not voluntarily resume it. 
He was too true a gentleman to think of discussing with another 
lady what he did not discuss with his own wife, so that the sub- 
ject was not mentioned between Lady Peters and himself. 

Then for the fair young Duchess of Hazlewood began the new 
life which had in it no old friend. If she repented of her ven- 
geance, she did not say so. If she would fain have undone her 
evil deed, she never owned it. But, as time wore on, people 
saw a great change in her. She gave herself more to the gay- 
eties and follies of the world; there were few fashions which 
she did not lead, fe-w gay pursuits in which she did not take an 
active part. The character of her beauty, too, seemed changed. 
She had always been brilliant, but somewhat of a strange unrest 
came into her face and manner; the dark eyes seemed to be al- 
ways looking for something they could not find. Her mind, 
though charming and fascinating as ever, grew variable and un- 
steady. She had always been too proud for coquetry; she re- 
mained so now. But she no longer shunned and avoided all flat- 
tery and homage; it seemed rather to please her than not. And 
— greatest change of all — the name of Lord Arleigh never 
crossed her lips. He himself had retired from public life; the 
great hopes formed of him were all dying away. Men spoke of 
him with mystery, women with sad, gentle interest; those who 
had known him knew him no more. 

He did not return to Beechgrove; it seemed to him that he 


164 


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could never again endure the sight of the place where he had 
separated from his wife — that his ancient home had been in some 
mail tier desecrated. The mansion was left in charge of Mrs. 
Cliatterton, whose wonder at the new. and strange state of things 
never ceased. 

“Such a marriage!” She held up her hands in horror as she 
thought of it. Indeed, to her the event appeared like a wed- 
ding and a funeral on the same day. She had not seen Lady 
Arleigh since, yet she had never forgot the fair, lovely young 
face that had shone for so short a time in the grand old home. 

Lord Arleigh saw that his wife had everything needful for her; 
he settled a large income on her; he sent from London horses, 
carriages, everything that her heart could desire; he saw that 
she had a proper household formed. Wdiatever else the world 
might say, it could not say that he show^ed her any want of re- 
spect or any want of attention. Lord Arleigh did not live with 
his wife, never visited her, never spoke of her; but it w^as quite 
clear that his motive for doing none of these things lay deeper 
than the world knew or could even guess. 

The family solicitor w’ent down to Winiston House occasion- 
ally, but Lord Arleigh never. The few who met him after his 
marriage found him strangely altered. Even his face had 
changed; the frank, honest, open look that had once seemed to 
defy and challenge and meet the whole w^orld had died aw^ay ; he 
looked now like a man with a secret to keep — a secret that liad 
taken his youth from him, that had taken the light from his life, 
that had shadowed his eyes, drawn hard lines of care round his 
lips, wu-inkled his face, taken the music from his voice, and made 
of him a changed and altered, a sad, unhappy man. 

There w’ere one or tw^o intimate friends — friends wdio had 
known him in his youth — who ventured to ask what this secret 
was, w'ho appealed to him frankly to make his trouble know’u, 
telling him that sorrow' shared was sorrow lightened; but with a 
s^id smile he only raised his head and answered that his sorrow 
was one of which he could not speak. Sometimes a kindly wo- 
man w ho had known him as boy and man — one with daughters 
and sons of her owm — w’ould ask him what W’as the nature of his 
sorrow\ He would never tell. 

“I cannot exi:)lain,” he w’ould reply. 

Society tried hard to penetrate the mystery. Some said that 
Lady Arleigh w’as insane, and that he had not discovered it un- 
til the afternoon of his wedding-day. Others said that she had 
a fierce temper, and tint he w'as unaw'are of it until they were 
traveling homeward. These were the most innocent rumors; 
others were more scandalous. It w\as said that he had discov- 
ered some great crime that she had committed. Few believed 


WIFE m NAME ONLY. 


165 


such stories; Lord Arleigh, they declared, was not the man to 
make so terrible a mistake. 

Then, after a time, all the sensation and wonder died away; 
society accepted the fact that Lord Arleigh was unhappily married 
and had separated from his wife. 

He went abroad, and then returned home, sojourning at quiel 
watering places where he thought his story and himself would 
be unknown. Afterward he went to Normandy, and tried to 
lose the remembrance of his troubles in his search after the 
picturesque. But, when he had done everything that he could 
do to relieve his distress of mind, he owned to himself that he 
was a most miserable man. 


CHAPTEK XXXI. 

A year and a half had passed, and Lord Arleigh was still, as it 
were, out of the world. It was the end of April, a spring fresh 
and beautiful. His heart had turned to Beechgrove, where the 
violets were springing and the young larches were budding; but 
he could not go thither — the picture-gallery was a haunted spot 
to him — and London he could endure. The fashionable intelli- 
gence told him that the Duke and Duchess of Hazlewood had 
arrived for the season, that they had had their magnificent man- 
sion refurnished, and that the beautiful duchess intended to 
startle all London by the splendor and variety of her entertain-* 
ments. 

He said to himself that it would be impossible for him to re- 
main in town without seeing them — and see them of his own free 
will he never would again. 

Fate was, however, too strong for him. He had decided that 
he would leave London rather than run the risk of meeting the 
Duchess of Hazlewood. Ho went one morning co a favorite ex- 
hibition of pictures, and the first person he saw in the gallery 
was the duchess herself. As their eyes met her face grew deadly 
pale, so pale that he thought she would faint and fall to the 
ground; her lips opened as though she would fain utter his 
name. To him she looked taller, more beautiful, more stately 
than ever — her superb costume suited her to perfection — yet he 
looked coldly into the depths of her dark eyes, and without a 
word or sign of greeting passed on. 

He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided 
that he would leave London at once. He was a sensitive man, 
more tender of heart than men as a rule, and their meeting had 
been a source of torture to Him. He could not endure even the 


166 


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thought that Philippa should have lost all claim to his respect. 
He decided to go to Tintagel, iu wild, romantic Cornwall; at. 
least there would be boating, fishing, and the glorious scenery. 

“I must go somewhere,” he said to himself — “I must do 
something. My life hangs heavy on my hands— how will it 
end?” 

So in sheer weariness and desperation he went to Tintagel, 
having, as he thought, kept his determination to himself, as he 
^ wished no one to know wdiither he had retreated. One of the 
newspapers, however, heard of it, and in a little paragraph told 
that Lord Arleigh of Beechgrove had gone to Tintagel for the 
summer. That paragraph had one unexpected result. 

It was the first of May. The young nobleman was thinking 
of the May days when he was a boy — of how the common near 
his early home was yellow with gorse, and the. hedges were 
white with hawthorn. He strolled sadly along the sea-shore, 
thinking of the sunniest May he had known since then, the May 
before his marriage. The sea was unusually calm, the sky above 
■was blue, the air mild and balmy, the white sea gulls circled 
in the air, the waves broke with gentle murmur on the yellow 
sand. 

He sat down on the sloping beach. They had nothing to tell 
him, those rolling, restless waves — no sweet story of h^pe or of 
love, no vague pleasant harmony. With a deep moan he bent 
his head as he thought of the fair young wife from whom he had 
parted for evermore, the beautiful loving girl who had clung to 
him so earnestly. 

“ Madaline, Madaline!” he cried aloud: and the waves seemed 
to take up the cry — they seemed to repeat “ Madaline ” as they 
broke on the shore. “Madaline,” the mild wind whispered. It 
was like the realization of a dream, when he heard his name 
murmured, and, turning, he saw his lost wife before him. 

The next moment he had sprung to his feet, uncertain at 
first whether it was really herself or some fancied vision. 

“Madaline,” he cried, “is it really you?” 

“ Yes; you must not be angry witli me, Norman. See, we are 
’quite alone; there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to 
reveal that we have met.” 

t She trembled as she spoke; her face — to him more beautiful 
than ever — was raised to his with a look of unutterable ap- 
peal. 

“You are not angry, Norman?” 

“No, I am not angry. Do not speak to me as though T were 
a tyrant. Angry — and with you, Madaline— always my best be- 
loved — how could that be?” 

“I knew that you were here,” she said. “ I saw in a news- 
paper that you were going to Tintagel for the summer. I had 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


167 


been longing to see vou again — to see you, while unseen my- 
self; so I came hither.” 

“My dear Madaline, to what purpose?” he asked, sadly. 

“I felt that if 1 did not look upon your face I should die — 
that I could live no longer without seeing you. Such a terrible 
fever seemed to be burning my very life away. My heart 
yearned for the touch of your hand. So 1 came. You are not 
angry that I came?” 

“No, not angry; but, my darling, it will be harder for us to 
part.” 

“ I have been here in Tintagel for two whole days,” she con- 
tinued. “I have seen you, but this is the first time you have 
gone where I could follow. Now speak to me, Norman. Say 
something to me that will cure my terrible pain — that will take 
the weary aching from my heart. Say something that will make 
me stronger to bear my desolate life — braver to live without you. 
You are wiser, better, stronger, braver than I. Teach me to 
bear my fate.” 

What could he say? Heaven help them both — what could he 
say? He looked with dumb, passionate sorrow into her fair 
loving face. 

“ You must not think it unwomanly in me to come,” she said. 
“I am you wife — there is no harm in my coming. If I were 
not your wife, I would sooner have drowned myself than re- 
turn after you had sent me away.” 

Her face was suffused with a crimson blush. 

“ Norman,” she said gently, “ sit down here by my side, and 
I will tell you why I have come.” 

They sat down side by side on the beach. There was only the 
wdde blue sky above, only the wide waste of restless waters at 
their feet, only a circling sea-gull near— no human being to 
w’atch the tragedy of love and pride played out by the sea 
waves. 

“I have come,” she said, “to make one more appeal to you, 
Norman — to ask you to change this stern determination which 
is mining your life and mine — to ask you to take me back to 
your home and your heart. For I have been thinking, dear, 
and I do not see that the obstacle is such as you seem to im- 
agine. It was a terrible wrong, a great disgrace — it was a cruel 
deception, a fatal mistake; but, after all, it might be overlooked. 
Morepver, Norman, when you rrtade me your wife, did you not 
promise to love and to chei-ish, to protect me and make me 
happy until I died?” 

“ Yes,” he replied, briefly. 

“Then how are you keeping that promise — a promise made 
in the sight of Heaven?” 


1G8 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Lord Arleigh looked down at tlie fair, pure face, a strange 
light glowing in his own. 

“My dear Madaline,” he said, “you must not overlook what 
the honor of iny race demands. I have my own ideas of what 
is due to my ancestors; and I cannot think that I have sinned 
by broken vows. I vowed to love you — so I do, my darling, 
ten thousand times better than anything else on earth. I vowed 
to be true and faithful to you — so I am, for I would not even 
look at another woman’s face. I vowed to protect you and to 
shield you — so I do, my darling; I have surrounded you with 
luxury and ease.” 

What could she reply — what urge or plead? 

“So, in the eyes of Heaven, my wife, I cannot think I am 
wronging you.” 

“Then,” she said, humbly, “my coming here, my pleading, 
is in vain.” 

“ Not in vain, my darling. Even the sight of you for a few 
minutes has been like a glimpse of Elysium.” 

“And I must return,” she said, “as I came — with my love 
thrown back, my prayers unanswered, my sorrow redoubled.” 

She hid her face in her hands and wei)t aloud. Presently she 
bent forward. 

“Norman,” she said, in a low whisper, “my daiding, I appeal 
to you for my own sake. I love you so dearly that I cannot 
live away from you — it is a living death. You cannot realize it. 
There are few moments, night or day, in which your face is not 
before me — few moments in which I do not hear your voice. 
Last night I dreamed that you stood before me with outstretched 
arms and called me. I went to you, and you clasped me in 
your arms. You said, ‘My darling wife, it has all been a mis- 
take — a terrible mistake — and I am come to ask your pardon 
and to take you home.’ In my dream, Norman, you kissed my 
face, my lips, my hands, and called me by every loving name 
you could invent. You were so kind to me, and I was so happy. 
And the dream was so vivid, Norman, that even after I awoke I 
believed it to be reality. Then I heard the sobbing of the waves 
on the beach, and I cried out, ‘ Norman, Norman!’ thinking you 
were still near me; but there was no reply. It was only the si- 
lence that roused me to a full sense that my happiness was a 
dream. There was no husband with kind words and tender 
kisses. I thought my heart w’ould have broken. And then I 
said to myself that I could live no longer without making an ef- 
fort once more to change your decision. Oh, Norman, ft;r my 
sake, do not send me back to utter desclation and despair! Do 
not send me back to coldness and darkness, to sorrow and tears! 
Let me be near you! You have a thousaml interests in life — I 
have but one. You can live without love, I cannot Oh, Nor- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


169 


man, for my sake, for my love’s sake, for my happiness’ sake, 
take me back, dear — take me back!” 

The golden liead dropped forward and fell on his breast, her 
hands clung to him with almost despairing pain. 

“I will be so humble, darling. I can keep away from all ob- 
servation. It is only to be with you that I wish — only to be 
near you. You cannot be hard — you cannot send me away; you 
will not, for I love you!” 

Her hands clung more closely to him. 

“ Many men have forgiven their wives even great crimes, and 
have taken them back after the basest desertion. , Overlook my 
father’s crime and pardon me, for Heaven’s dear sake!” 

“ My dearest Madaline, if you would but understand! I have 
nothing to pardon. You are sweetest, dearest, loveliest, best. 
You are one of the purest and noblest of women. I have noth- 
ing to pardon; it is only that I cannot take disgrace into my 
family. I cannot give to my children an inheritance of crime.” 

“ But, Norman,” said the girl, gently, “ because my father was 
a felon, that does not make me one — because he was led into 
wrong, it does not follow that I must do wrong. Insanity may 
be hereditary, but surely crime is not; besides, I have heard my 
father say that his father was an honest, simple, kindly north- 
ern farmer. My father had much to excuse him. He was a 
handsome man, who had been flattered and made much of.” 

“ My darling I could not take your hands into mine and kiss 
them so, if I fancied that they were ever so slightly tainted with 
sin.” 

“Then why not take me home, Norman?” 

“I cannot,” he replied, in a tone of determination. “You 
must not torture me, Madaline, with further pleading. I can- 
not — that is sufficient.” 

He rose and walked with rapid steps down the shore. How 
hard it was, how terrble — bitter almost as the anguish of death! 

She was by his side again, walking in silence. He would 
have given the whole world if he could have taken her into his 
arms and have kissed back the color into her sad young face. 

“Norman,” said a low voice, full of bitterest pain, “I am 
come to say good-by. I am sorry I have done harm — not good. 
I am sorry — forgive me, and say good-by.” 

“ It has made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline,” he 
returned, hoarsely. 

“Never mind the hardship; you will soon recover from that,” 
she said. “I am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, 
and broken the long silence. I will never do it again, Norman.” 

“Never, unless you are ill and need me,” he supplemented. 
“ Then you have promised to send for me.” 

“I will do so,” she said. “You will remember, dear hus- 


170 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


band, that my last words io you were ‘Good-by, and Heaven 
bless you. ’ ” 

The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she 
should see the trembling of his face; he never complained to 
her. He knew now that she thought him hard, cold, unfeeling, 
indifferent — that she thought his pride greater than his love; 
but even that was better than that she should know he suffered 
more than she did — she must never know that. 

When he turned back from the tossing waves and the summer 
sun she was gone. He looked across the beach — there was no 
sign of her. • She was gone; and he avowed to himself that it 
would be wonderful if ever in this world he saw her again. She 
did not remain at Tintagel; to do so would be useless, hopeless. 
She saw it now. She had hoped against hoj^e; she had said to 
herself that in a year and a half he would surely have altered 
his mind — he would have found now how hard it was to live 
alone, to live without love — he would have found that there was 
something dearer in the world than family pride — lie would have 
discovered that love outweighed everything else. Then she saw 
that her anticipations were all wrong — he j)referred his dead an- 
cestors to his living wife. 

She went back to Winiston House and took up the dreary 
round of life again. She might have made her lot more en- 
durable and haj^pier, she might have traveled, have sought so- 
ciety and amusement; but she had no heart for any of these 
things. She had spent the year and a half of her lonely mar- 
ried life in profound study, thinking to herself that if he should 
claim her he would be pleased to find her yet more accomplish- 
ed and educated. She was indefatigable, and it was all for him. 

Now that she was going back, she was without this mainspring 
of hope — her old studies and pursuits w^earied her. To what 
end and for what purpose had been all her study, all her hard 
work? He would never know of her proficiency; and she would 
not care to study for any other object than to please him. 

“ What am I to do with my life,” she moaned. “ Mariana in 
the moated grange was not more to be pitied than I.” 

I How often the words occurred to her: 

“ The day is dreary, 

‘He cometh not,’ she said: 

She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead.’ ” 

It was one of the strangest, dullest, saddest lives that human 
being ever led. That she wearied of it was no wonder. She 
was tired of the sorrow, the suffering, the despair — so tired that 
after a time she fell ill; and then she lay longing for death. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


171 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as 
they had not looked for years; the heather grew in rich profu- 
sion, the grouse were plentiful. The prospects for sportsmen 
were excellent. 

Not knowing what else to do. Lord Arleigh resolved to go to'^ 
Scotland for the shooting; there was a sort of savage satisfaction 
in the idea of living so many weeks alone, without on-lookers, 
where he could be dull if he liked without comment — where he 
could lie for hours together on the heather looking up at the 
blue skies, and puzzling over the problem of his life — where, 
when the lit of despair seized him, he could indulge in it, and 
no one wonder at him. He hired a shooting-lodge called Gla- 
burn. In his present state of mind it seemed to him to be a 
relief to live where he could not even see a woman’s face. Gla- 
burn was kept in order by two men, who mismanaged it after 
the fashion of men, but Lord Arleigh was happier there than he 
had been since his fatal marriage-day, simply because he was 
quite alone. If he spent more time in Iving on the heather and 
thinking of Madaline than he did in shooting, that was his own 
concern — there was no one to interfere. 

One day, when he was in one of his most despairing moods, 
he went out quite early in the morning, determined to wander 
the day through, to exhaust himself pitilessly with fatigue, and 
then see if he could not rest without dreaming of Madaline. 
But as he wandered east and west, knowing little and caring 
less, whither he went, a violent storm, such as breaks at times 
over the Scottish moors, overtook him. The sky grew dark as 
night, the rain fell in a torrent — blinding, thick, heavy — he could 
hardly see his hand before him. He wandered on for hours, 
wet through, weary, cold, yet rather rejoicing than otherwise in 
his fatigue. Presently hunger was added to fatigue; and then 
the matter became more serious — he had no hope of being able 
to find hi? way home, for he had no idea in what direction he 
had strayed. 

At last he grew alarmed; life did not hold much for him, it 
was true, but he had no desire to die on those lonely wilds, 
without a human being near him. Then it became painful for 
him to walk; his fatigue was so great that his limbs ached at 
every step. He began to think his life was drawing near its 
close. Once or twice he had cried “ Madaline ” aloud, and the 
name seemed to die away on the sobbing wind. 


172 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He grew exhausted at last; for some hours he had struggled 
on 111 the face of the tempest. 

“I shall have to lie down like a dog by the road-side and 
die,” he thought to himself. 

No other fate seemed to be before him but that, and he told 
himself that after all he had sold his life cheaply. “Found 
dead on the Scotch moors,” would be the verdict about him. 

What would the world say? What would his golden-haired 
darling say when she heard that he was dead? 

As the hot tears blinded his eyes — tears for Madaline, not for 
himself — a light suddenly flashed into them, and he found him- 
self quite close to the window of a house. W'lth a deep-drawn, 
bitter sob, he whispered to himself that he was saved. He had 
just strength enough to knock at the door; and when it was 
opened he fell across the threshold, too faint and exhausted to 
speak, a sudden darkness before his eyes. 

When he had recovered a little, he found that several gentle- 
men were gathered around him, and that one of them was hold- 
ing a flask of whisky to his lips. 

“That was a narrow escape,” said a cheery, musical voice. 
“How long have you been on foot?” 

“ Since eight this morning,” he replied. 

“And now it is nearly eight at night! Well, you may thank 
Heaven for preserving your life.” 

Lord Arleigh turned away with a sigh. How little could any 
one guess what life meant for him — life spent without love — 
love — without Madaline! 

“ I have known several lose their lives in this way,” continued 
the same voice. “ Only last year poor Charley Hartigan was 
caught in a similar storm, and he lay for four days dead before 
he was found. This gentleman has been fortunate.” 

Lord Arleigh roused himself and looked around. He found 
himself the center of observation. The room in which he was 
lying was large and well furnished, and from the odor of to- 
bacco it was plainly used as a smoking-room. 

’ Over him leaned a tall, handsome man, whose hair was slight- 
ly tinged with gray. 

“I tliink,” he said, “you are my neighbor. Lord Arleigh? I 
have often seen you on the moors.” 

“I do not remember you,” Lord Arleigh returned; “nor dol 
know wliere I am.” 

“Then let me introduce myself as the Earl of Mountdean,” 
said the gentleman. “You are at Rosorton, a shooting-lodge 
belonging to me, and I beg that you will make yourself at 
home.” 

Every attention was.paid to him. He was placed in a warm 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 173 

bed, some warm, nourishing soup was brought to him, and he 
was }eit to rest. 

“ The Earl of Mountdean.” Then this was the tall figure he 
had seen striding over the hills — this was the neighbor he had 
shunned and avoided, preferring solitude. How kind he was, 
and how his voice affected him! It was like long-forgotten 
melody. He asked himself whether he had seen the earl any- 
where. He could not remember. He could not recall to his 
mind that they had ever met, yet he had most certainly lieard 
Jiiis voice. He fell asleep thinking of this, and dreamed of Mad- 
aline all night long. 

In the morning the earl came himself to his room to make in- 
quiries; and then Lord Arleigh liked him better than ever. He 
would not allow his guest to rise. 

“Remember,” he said, “prevention is better than cure. 
After the terrible risk you have run, it will not do for you to be 
rash. You must rest.” 

So Lord Arleigh took the good advice given to him to lay 
still, but on the second day he rose, declaring that he could 
stand no farther confinement. Even then Lord Mountdean 
would not hear of his going. 

“1 am compelled to be despotic with you,” he said. “I 
know that at Glaburn you have no housekeeper, only men-ser- 
vants — and they cannot make you comfortable, I am sure. Stay 
here for a few days until you are quite well.” 

So Lord Arleigh allow^ed himself to be persuaded, saying, 
with a smile, that he had come to Glaburn purposely for soli- 
tude. 

“It was for the same thing that I came here,” said the earl. 
“I have had a great sorrow in my life, and 1 like sometimes to 
be alone to think about it.” 

The two men looked at each other, but they liked each other 
all the better for such open confession. 

When a few days had passed, it w as Lord Arleigh who felt 
unwilling to leave his companion. He had never felt more at 
home than he did with Lord Mountdean. He had met no one 
so simple, so manly, so intelligent, and at the same time such a 
good fellow. There Avere little peculiarities in the earl, too, 
that struck him very forcibly; they seemed to recall some faint, 
vague memory, a something that he could never grasp, that was 
always eluding him, yet that was perfectly clear; and he was 
completely puzzled. 

“ Have I ever met you before?” he asked the earl one day. 

“ I do not think so. I have no remembrance of ever having 
seen you.” 

“Your voice and face are familiar to me,” the younger man 


174 


WIFE IN NAIVIE ONLY. 


continued. “ One or two of your gestures are as well known to 
me as though I had lived with you for years.” 

Remembrances of that kind sometimes strike me,” said the 
earl — “ a mannerism, a something that one cannot explain. I 
should say that you have seen some one like me, perhaps.” 

It was probable enough, but Lord Aiieigh was not quite sat- 
isfied. The earl and his guest parted in the most friendly ‘man- 
ner. 

“I shall never be quite so much in love with solitude again,” 
said LordArleigh, as they were parting; “you have taught me 
that there is something better.” 

“ I have learned the same lesson from you,” responded the 
earl, with a sigh. “You talk about solitude. I had not been 
at Rosorton ten days before a party of four, all friends of mine, 
proposed to visit me. I could not refuse. They left the day 
after you came.” 

“I did not see them,” said Lord Arleigh. 

“No, I did not ask them to prolong their stay, fearing that 
after all those hours on the moors, you might have a serious ill- 
ness; but now. Lord Arleigh, you will promise me that we shall 
be friends.” 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ we will be friends.” 

So it was agreed that they should be strangers no longer — 
that they should visit and exchange neighborly courtesies and 
civilities. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Earl of Mountdean and Lord Arleigh were walking up a 
steep hill one day together, when the former feeling tired, they 
both sat down among the heather to rest. There was a warm 
sun shining, a jjleasant wind blowing, and the purple heather 
seemed literally to dance around them. They remained for 
some time in silence; it was the earl who broke it by saying: 

“ How beautiful the heather is! And here indeed on this hill- 
top is solitude! We might fancy ourselves quite alone in the 
y orld. By the way, you have never told me, Arleigh, what it 
is that makes you so fond of solitude.” 

“I have had a great trouble,” he replied, briefly. 

“A trouble! But one suffers a great deal before losing all in- 
terest in life. You are so young, you cannot have suffered 
much.” 

“I know no other life so utterly helpless as my own.” 


WIPE IN NAME ONLY. 


175 


The earl looked at him thoughtfully. 

“I should like to know what your trouble is?” he said 
gently. 

“ 1 can tell you only one half of it,” was the reply, “ I fell 
in love with one of the sweetest, fairest, purest of girls. How I 
loved her is only known to myself. I suppose every man thinks 
his own love the greatest and the best My whole heart went 
out to this girl — with my whole soul I loved her! She was be- 
low me in the one matter of worldly wealth and position — above 
me in all other. When I first asked her to marry me, she re- 
fused. She told me that the difference in our rank was too great. 
She was most noble, most self-sacrificing; she loved ine, I know, 
most dearly, but she refused me. I was for some time unable 
to overcome her opposition; at last I succeeded. I tell you no 
details either of her name or Avhere she lived, nor any other 
circumstances connected with her — I tell you only this, that, 
once having won her consent to our marriage, I seemed to have 
exchanged earth for Elysium. Then we were married, not pub- 
licly and with great pomp, but as my darling wished — privately 
and quietly. On the same day— my wedding-day — I took her 
home. I cannot tell how great was my happiness — ^no one could 
realize it. Believe me. Lord Mountdean, that she herself is as 
pure as a saint, that I know no other woman at once so meek and 
so lofty, so noble and so humble. Looking at her, one feels how 
true and sweet a woman’s soul can be. Yet — oh, that I should 
live to say it! — on my wedding-day I discovered something — it 
w'as no fault of hers, I swear — that parted us. Loving her 
blindly, madly, with my whole heart and soul, I was still com- 
pelled to leave her. She is my wife in name only, and can 
never be more to me, yet, you understand, without any fault 
of hers.” 

“ What a strange storyl” said the earl, thoughtfully, “ But this 
barrier, this obstacle — can it never be removed?” 

“ No,” answered Lord Arleigh, “never!” 

“ I assure you of my deepest sympathy,” said the earl. “ It 
is a strange history.” 

“Yes, and a sad fate,” sighed Lord Arleigh. “You cannot 
understand my story entirely. Wanting a full explanation, you 
might fairly ask me why I married with this drawback. I did 
not know of it, but my wife believed I did. We were both 
most cruelly deceived, it does not matter now. She is con- 
demned to a loveless, joyless life; so am I. With a wife beauti- 
ful, loving, young, I must lead a most solitary existence — I must 
see my name die out for want of heirs — I must see my race al- 
most extinct, my life passed in repining and misery, my heart 
broken, my days without sunshine, I repeat that it is a sad 
fate.” 


176 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“It is indeed,” agreed the earl — “and such a strange one. 
Are you quite sure that nothing can be done to remedy it?” 

“ Quite sure,” was the hopeless reply. 

“I can hardly understand the need for separation, seeing that 
the wife herself is blameless.” 

“In this case it is unavoidable.” 

“May I, without seeming curious, ask you a question?” said 
the earl. 

“ Certainly — as many as you like.” 

“ You can please yourself about answering it,” observed the 
earl; and then he added: “Tell me, is it a case of insanitv? 
Has your wife any hereditary tendency to anything of that 
kind?” 

“No,” replied Lord Arleigh; “it is nothing of that descrip- 
tion. My wife is to me perfect in body and mind; lean add 
nothing to that.” 

“ Then your story is a marvel; I do not — I cannot understand 
it. Still I must say that, unless there is something far deeper 
and more terrible than I can imagine, you have done wrong to 
part from your wife. ” 

“I wish I could think so. But my doom is fixed, and no 
matter how long I live, or she lives, it can never be al- 
tered. ” 

“ My story is a sad one,” observed Lord Mountdean, “but it 
is not so sad as yours. I married when 1 was quite young — 
married against my father’s wish, and without his consent. The 
lady I loved was. like your own; she was below me in position, 
but in nothing else. She was the daughter of a clergyman, a 
lady of striking beauty, good education and manners. " I need 
not trouble you by telling you how it came about. I married 
her against my father’s wish; he was in Italy at the time for his 
health — he had been there indeed for some years. I married 
her privately; our secret was well kept. Some time after our 
marriage I received a telegram stating that my father was dying 
and wished to see me. At that very time we were expecting the 
birth of what we hoped would be a son and heir. But I was 
anxious that my father should see and bless my wife before he 
died. She assured me that the journey would not hurt her, 
that no evil consequences would ensue; and, as I longed in- 
tensely for my father to see her, it was arranged that we should 
go together. A few hours of the journey passed happily enough, 
and then my poor wife was taken ill. Heaven pardon me be- 
cause of my youth, my ignorance, my inexperience! I think 
sometimes that I might have saved her — but it is impossible to 
tell. We stopped at a little town called Castledene, and I drove 
to the hotel. There were races, or something of the kind, going 
on in the neighborhood, and the proprietors could not accom- 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


177 


moflate us. I drove to the doctor, who was a good Samaritau; 
he took us into his house — mj child was born, and my wife died 
there. It was not a son and heir, as we had hoped it might be, 
but a little daughter, as fair as her mother. Ah, Lord Arleigh, 
you have had your troubles, I have had mine. My wife was 
buried at Castledeue— my beautiful young wife, whom I loved 
so dearly. I left my child, under the doctor’s care, with a nurse, 
having arranged to pay so much per annum for her, and intend- 
ing when I returned to England to take her home to Wood 
Lynton as my heiress. My father, contrary to the verdict of 
the physicians, lingered about three years. Then he died, and 
I became Earl of Mountdean. The first thing I did was to hurry 
to Castledene. Can you imagine my horror when I found that 
all trace of my child was lost? The poor doctor had met with 
some terrible death, and the woman who had charge of my little 
one had left the neighborhood. Can you imagine what this 
blow was to me? Since then my life has been spent in one un- 
ceasing efibrt to find my daughter.” 

“How strange!” said Lord Arleigh. “ Did you not know the 
name of the nurse?” 

“ Yes, she lived at a little place called Ash wood. I advertised 
for her, I offered large rewards, but I have never gleaned the 
least news of her; no one could ever find her. Her husband, it 
appeared, had been guilty of crime. My opinion is that the 
poor woman fled in shame from the neighborhood where 
she was known, and that both she and my dear child are 
dead.” 

“It seems most probable,” observed Lord Arleigh. 

“If I could arrive at any certainty as to her fate,” said the 
earl, “I should be a happier man. I have been engaged to my 
cousin Lady Lily Gordon for four years, but I cannot make up 
my mind to marry until I hear something certain abput my 
daughter. ” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Winiston House was prettily situated. The house stood in the 
midst of charming grounds. There was a magnificent garden, 
full of flowers, full of fragrance and bloom; there was an orch- 
ard filled with rich, ripe fruit, broad meadow-land where the 
cattle grazed, where daisies and oxlips grew. To the left of the 
house was a large shrubbery, which opened on to a wide car- 
riage drive leading to the high road. The house was an old red- 
brick building, in no particular style of architecture,, with large 
oriel windows and a square porch. The rooms were large, lofty, 


178 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


and well lighted. Along the western side of the house ran a 
long terrace called the western terrace; there the sun appeared 
to shine brightest, there tender plants Nourished, there tame 
white doves came to he fed and a peacock walked in majesty; 
from there one heard the distant rush of the river. 

There Lady Arleigh spent the greater part of her time — there 
she wore her gentle life away. Three years had elapsed, and no 
change had come to her. She read of her husband’s sojourn in 
Scotland. Then she read in the fashionable intelligence that he 
had gone to Wood Lynton, the seat of the Earl of Mountdean. 
He remained there three days, and then w’ent abroad. Where 
he was now she did not know; doubtless he was traveling from 
one place to another, wretched, unhappy as she was herself. 

The desolate, dreary life had begun to prey upon her at last. 
She had fought against it bravely for some time — she had tried 
to live down the sorrow; but it was growing too strong for her — 
the weight of it was wearing her life away. Slowly but surely 
she began to fade and droop. At first it was but a failure in 
strength — a little walk tired her, the least fatigue or exercise 
seemed too much for her. Then, still more slowly, the exquisite 
bloom faded from the lovely face, a. weary languor shone in the 
dark-blue eyes, the crimson lips lost their color. Yet Lady Ar- 
leigh grew more beautiful as she grew more fragile. Then all 
appetite failed her. Mrs. Burton declared that she ate nothing. 

She might have led a different life — she might have gone out 
into society — she might have visited and entertained guests. 
People knew that Lady Arleigh was separated from her hus- 
band; they knew also that, whatever might have been the cause 
of separation, it had arisen from no fault of hers. She would, 
in spite of her strange position, have been welcomed with open 
arms by the whole neighborhood, but she was sick with mortal 
sorrow — life had not a charm for her. 

She had no words for visitors — she had no wish left for en- 
joyment. Just to dream her life away was all she cared for. 
The disappointment was so keen, so bitter, she could not over- 
come it. Death would free Norman from all burden —would 
free him from this tie that must be hateful to him. Death was 
no foe to be met and fought with inch by inch; he was rather a 
friend who was to save her from the embarrassment of living on 
— a friend who would free her husband from the effects of his 
terrible mistake. 

When her strengh began to fail her, when she grew languid, 
feeble, fragile, there was nd sustaining i:)ower, no longing for 
life, no desire to combat grim death, no hopeful looking for the 
return of her old buoyancy. Slowly, gradually, surely she was 
fading away, after the manner of a bright flower deprived of sun- 
shine and dew. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


179 


Madaline had never sent for her mother, not knowing whether 
Lord Arleigh would like it; but she had constantly written to 
her, and had forwarded money to her. She had sent her more 
than Margaret Dornham was willing to accej^t. Another thing 
she had done — she had most carefully refrained from saying one 
word to her mother as to the cause of her separation from her 
husband. Indeed, Margaret Dornham had no notion of the life 
that her well-beloved Madaline was leading. 

It had been a terrible struggle for Margaret to give her up. 

**I might as well have let her go back years ago to those to 
whom she belonged,” she said to herself, “as to let her go 
now.” 

Still, she stood in great awe of the Duchess of Hazlewood, 
who seemed to her one of the grandest ladies in all England; 
and, Avhen the duchess told her it was selfish of her to stand in 
her daughter’s light, Margaret gave way and let her go. Many 
times, after she had parted with her, she felt inclined to open 
the oaken box with brass clasps, and see wliat the papers in it 
contained, but a nameless fear came over her. She did not dare 
to do what she had not done earlier. 

Madaline had constantly written to her, had told her of her 
lover, had described Lord Arleigh over and over again to her. 
On the eve of her wedding-day she had written again; but, after 
that fatal marriage-day, she had not told her secret. Of what 
use would it be to make her mother more unhappy than she was 
— of.w^hat avail to tell her that the dark and terrible shadow of 
her father’s crime had fallen over her young life, blighting it 
also? 

Of all her mother’s troubles she knew this would be the great- 
est, so she generously refrained from naming it. There was no 
need to tell her patient, long-sufieriiig, unhappy mother that 
which must prove like a dagger in her gentle heart. So Marga- 
ret Dornham had one gleam of sunshine in her wretched life. 
She believed that the girl she had loved so dearly was unuttera- 
bly happy. She had read the descriptions of Lord Arleigh with 
tears in her eyes. 

“That is how girls write of the men they love,” she said — 
“my Madaline loves him.” 

Madaline had written to her when the ceremony was over. 
She had no one to make happy with her news but her distant 
mother. Then some days passed before she heard again — that 
did not seem strange. There was, of course, the going home, 
the change of scene, the constant occupation. Madaline would 
write when she had time. At the end of a week she heard again; 
and then it struck her that the letter was dull, unlike one writ- 
ten by a happy bride— but of course she must be mistaken — why 
should not Madaline be happy? 


180 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


After that the letters came regularly, and Madaline said that 
the greatest pleasure she had lay in helping her mother. She 
said that she intended to make her a certain allowance, which 
she felt quite sure would be continued to her after her death, 
should that event precede her mother’s; so that at last, for the 
weary-hearted woman, came an interval of something like con- 
tentment. Through Madaline’s bounty she was able to move 
from her close lodgings in town to a pretty cottage in the coun- 
try. Then she had a glimpse of content. 

After a time her heart yearned to see the daughter of her 
adoption, the one sunbeam of her life, and she wrote to that 
effect. 

“I will come to you,” wrote Madaline, in reply, “if you will 
promise me faithfully to make no difference between me and the 
child Madaline who used to come home from school years ago.” 

Margaret promised, and Madaline, plainly dressed, went to 
see her mother. It was sweet, after those long, weary months 
of humiliation and despair, to lay her head on that faithful 
breast and hear whispered words of love and affection. When 
the warmth of their first greeting was over, Margaret was amazed 
at the change in her child. Madaline had grown taller, the girl- 
ish, graceful figure had developed into a model of perfect wo- 
manhood. The dress that she wore became her so well that the 
change in the marvelous face amazed her the most, it was so 
wonderfully wonderful, so fair, so pure, so spirituelle, yet it had 
so strange a story written upon it — a story she could neither 
read nor understand. It was not a happy face. The eyes were 
shadowed, the lips firm, the radiance and brightness that had 
distinguished her were gone; there were patience and resigna- 
tion instead. 

“How changed you are, my darling!” said Margaret, as she 
looked at her. “ Who would have thought that my little girl 
would grow into a tall, stately, beautiful lady, dainty and exqui- 
site? What did Lord Arleigh say to your coming, my dar- 
ling?” 

“He did not say anything,” she replied, slowly. 

“But was he not grieved to lose you?” 

“Lord Arleigh is abroad,” said Madaline, gently. “I do not 
expect that he will return to England just yet.” 

“Abroad!” repeated Margaret. “Then, my darling, how is 
it that you are not wdth him?” 

“ I could not go,” she replied, evasively. 

“And you love your husband very much, Madaline, do you 
not?” inquired Margaret. 

“Yes, I love him with all my heart and soul!” was the earnest 
reply. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


181 


“Thank Heaven that my darling is happy!” said Margaret. 
“I shall find everything easier to bear now that I know 
that,” 


CHAPTEE XXXy. 

Margaret Dornham was neither a clever nor a far-seeing wo- 
man; had she been either, she would never have acted as she 
did. She would have known that in taking little Madaline from 
Castledeno she was destroying her last chance of ever being 
owned or claimed by her parents; she would have understood 
that, although she loved the child very dearly, she was commit- 
ting a most cruel act. But she thought only of how she loved 
her. Yet, undiscerning as she was, she was puzzled about her 
daughter’s happiness. If she was really so happy, why did she 
spend long hours in reverie — why sit with folded hands, looking 
with such sad eyes at the passing clouds? That did not look 
like happiness. Why those heavy sighs, and the color that went 
and came like light and shade? It was strange happiness. After 
a time she noticed that Madaline never spoke voluntarily of her 
husband. She would answer any questions put to her — she 
would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her 
own accord she never once named him. That did not look like 
happiness. She even once, in answer to her mother’s questions, 
described Beechgrove to her — told her of the famous beeches, 
the grand picture gallery; she told her of the gorgeous Titian — 
the woman with rubies like blood shining on her white neck. 
But she did not add that she had been at Beechgrove only once, 
and had left the place in sorrow and shame. 

She seemed to have every comfort, every luxury; but Marga- 
garet noticed also that she never spoke of her circle of society — 
that she never alluded to visitors. 

“It seems to me, my darling, that you lead a very quiet life,” 
she said, one day; and Madaline’s only answer was that such 
was really the case. 

Another time Margaret said to her: 

“You do not write many letters to your husband, Madaline. 
I could imagine a young wife like you writing every day,” and 
her daughter made no reply. 

On another occasion Mrs. Dornham put the question to her: 

“You are quite sure, Madaline, that you love your husband?” 

“Love him!” echoed the girl, her face lighting up — “love 
him, mother? I think no one in the wide world has ever loved 
another better!” 


182 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“Such being the case, my darling,” said Margaret, anxiously, 
“ let me ask you if you are quite sure he loves you?” 

No shadow came into the blue eyes as she raised them to her 
mother’s face. 

“ I am as sure of it,” she replied, “ as I am of my own exist- 
ence.” 

“Then,” thought Margaret to herself, “I am mistaken; all’is 
well between them.” .. 

Madaline did not intend toremitin very long with her mother, 
but it was soothing to the wounded, aching heart to be loved so 
dearly. Margaret startled her one day, by saying: 

“ Madaline, now that you are a great lady, and have such in- 
fluential friends, do you not think you could do something for 
your father?” 

“ Something for my father?” repeated the girl, with a shud- 
der. “What can I do for him?” 

A new idea suddenly occurred to Mrs. Domham. She looked 
into Lady Arleigh’s pale, beautiful face. 

“Madaline,” she said, earnestly, “tell me the whole truth — 
is your father’s misfortune any drawback to you? Tell me the 
truth; I have a reason for asking you.” 

But Lady Arleigh would not pain her mother — her quiet, sim- 
ple heart had ached bitterly enough. She would not add one 
pang. 

“Tell me, dear,” continued Margaret, earnestly; “you do not 
know how important it is for me to understand.” 

“ My dear mother,” said Lady Arleigh, gently clasping her 
arms round her mother’s neck; “ do not let that idea make you 
uneasy. All minor lights cease to shine, you know, in the pres- 
ence of greater ones. The world bows down to Lord Arleigh; 
very few, 1 think, know what his wife’s name was. Be quite 
happy about me, mother. I am sure that no one who has seen 
me since my marriage knows anything about my father.” 

“I shall be quite happy, now that I know that,” she ob- 
served. 

More than once during that visit Margaret debated within 
herself whether she would tell Lady Arleigh her story or not; 
but the same weak fear that had caused her to run away with 
the child, lest she should lose her now, made her refrain from 
speaking, lest Madaline, on knowing the truth, should be angry 
with her and forsake her. 

If Mrs. Dorn ham had known the harm that her silence was 
doing she would quickly have broken it. 

Lady Arleigh returned home, taking her silent sorrows with 
her. If possible, she was kinder then ever afterward to her 
mother, sending her constantly baskets of fruit and game — 
presents of every kind. If it had not been for the memory of 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


183 


her couvict husband, Mrs. Dornliam would for the first time in 
her life have been quite happy. 

Then it was that Lady Arleigh began slowly to droop, then it 
was that her desolate life became utterly intolerable — that her 
sorrow became greater than she could bear. She must have 
some one near her, she felt — some one with whom she could 
speak — or she should go mad. She longed for her mother. It 
was true Margaret Dornharn was not an educated woman, but 
in her way she was refined. She was gentle, tender-hearted, 
thoughtful, patient, above all, Madaline believed she was her 
mother — and she had^never longed for her mother’s love and 
care as she did now, when health, strength, and life seemed to 
be failing her. 

By good fortune she happened to see in the daily papers that 
Lord Arleigh was staying at Meurice’s Hotel, in Paris. She 
wrote to him there, and told him that she had a great longing 
to have her mother with her. She told him that she had de- 
sired this for a long time, but that she had refained from ex- 
pressing the wish lest it should be displeasing to him. 

“Do not scruple to refuse me,” she said, “if you do not 
approve. I hardly venture to hope that you will give your con- 
sent. If you do, I will thank you for it. If you should think 
it best to refuse it, I submit humbly as I submit now. Let me 
add that I would not ask the favor but that my health and 
strength are failing fast.” 

Lord Arleigh mused long and anxiously over tliis letter. Ho 
liardly cared that her mother should go to Dower House; it 
would perhaps be the means of his unhappy secret becoming 
known. Nor did he like to refuse Madaline, unhappy, lonely, 
and ill. Dear Heaven, if he could but go to her himself and 
comfort her. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

Long and anxiously did Lord Arleigh muse over his wife’s let- 
ter. What was he to do? If her mother was like the generality 
of h«^r class, then he was quite sure that the secret he had kept 
would be a secret no longer — there was no doubt of that. She 
would naturally talk, and the servants would prove the truth of 
the story, and there would be a terrible expose. Yet, lonely and 
sorrowful as Madaline declared herself to be, how could he re- 
fuse her? It was an anxious question for him, and one that 
caused him much serious thought. Had he known how ill she 
was he would not have hesitated a moment. i 


184 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He wrote to Madaline — how the letter was received and cher- 
ished no one but herself knew — and told her that he would be 
in England in a day or two, and would then give her a decided 
answer. The letter was kind and affectionate; it came to ber 
hungry heart like dew to a thirsty ffower. 

A sudden idea occurred to Lord Arleigh. He would go to 
England and find out all about the unfortunate man Dornham. 
Justice had many victims; it was within the bounds of possi- 
bility that the man might have been innocent — might have been 
unjustly accused. If such — and oh, bow he hoped it might be! 
— should prove to be the case, then Lord Arleigh felt that he 
could take his wife home. It was the real degradation of the 
crime that he dreaded so utterly — dreaded more than all that 
could ever be said about it. He thought to himself more than 
once that, if by any unexpected means he discovered that Henry 
Dornham was innocent of the crime attributed to him, he would 
in that same hour ask Madaline to forgive him, and to be the 
mistress of his house. That was the only real solution of the 
difficulty that ever occurred to him. If the man were but inno- 
cent, he — Lord Arleigh — would never heed the poverty, the ob- 
scurity, the humble name — all that was nothing. By compari- 
son it seemed so little that he could have smiled at it. People 
might say it was a low marriage, but he had his own idea of 
what was low. If only the man could be proved innocent of 
crime, then he might go to his sweet, innocent wife, and clasp- 
ing her in his arms, take her to his heart. 

The idea seemed to haunt him— it seemed to have a fatal at- 
traction for him. He resolved to go to London at once and see 
if anything could be done in the matter. How he prayed and 
longed and hoped! He passed through well-nigh every stage 
of feeling — from the bright rapture of hope to the lowest 
depths of despair. He went first to Scotland Yard, and had a 
long interview with the detective who had given evidence 
against Henry Dornham. The detective’s idea was that he was 
emphatically “a bad lot.” 

He smiled benignly when Lord Arleigh suggested that possi- 
bly the man was innocent, remarking that it was very kind of 
the gentleman to think so; for his own part he did not see a 
shadow of a chance of it. 

“He was caught, you see, with her grace’s jewels in his 
pocket, and gold and sdver plate ready packed by his side — 
that did not look much like innocence.” 

“ No, certainly not,” Lord Arleigh admitted; “but then there 
have been cases in which circumstances looked even worse 
against an innocent man.” 

“ Yes” — the detective admitted it, seeing that for some reason 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 185 

or other his lordship had a grest desire to make the man out in- 
nocent. 

“ He will have a task,” the detective told himself, grimlv. 

To the inquiry as to whether the man had been sent out of 
England the answer was “No; he is at Chatham.” 

To Chatham Lord Arleigh resolved to go. For one in his po- 
sition there would not be much difficulty in obtaining an inter- 
view with the convict. And before Long Lord Arleigh, one of 
the proudest men in England, and Henry Dornham, poacher 
and thief, stood face to face. 

Lord Arleigh ’s first feeling was one of great surprise — Henry 
Dornham was so difierent from what he had expected to find 
him; he had not thought that he would be fair like Madaline, 
but he was unprepared for the dark, swarthy, gypsy -like type 
of the man before him. 

The two looked steadily at each other; the poacher did not 
seem in the least to stand in awe of his visitor. Lord Arleigh 
tried to read the secret of the man’s guilt or innocence in his face. 
Henry Dornham returned the gaze fearlessly. 

“What do you want with me?” he asked. “ You are what we 
call a swell. I know by the look of you. What do you want 
with me?” 

The voice, like the face, was peculiar, not unpleasant — deep, 
rich, with a clear tone, yet not in the least like Madaline’s voice. 

“ I want,” said Lord Arleigh, steadily, “to be your friend, if 
you will let me. ” 

“My friend!” a cynical smile curled the handsome lips. 
“Well, that is indeed a novelty. I should like to ask, if i^ would 
not seem rude, what kind of a friend can a gentleman like y^a 
be to me?” 

“ You will soon find out,” said Lord Arleigh. 

“I have never known a friendship between a rich man and a 
ne’er-do-well like myself which did not end in harm for the 
poorer man. You seek us only when you want us — and then it 
is for no good.” 

“ I should not be very likely to seek you from any motive but 
the desire to help you,” observed Lord Arleigh. 

“ It is not quite clear to me how I am to be helped,” returned 
the convict with a cynical smile; “ but if you can do anything 
to get me out of this wretched place, please do.” 

“I want you to answer me a few questions.” said Lord Ar- 
leigh — “and very much depends on them. To begin, tell me, 
were you innocent or guilty of the crime for which you are suf- 
fering? Is your punishment deserved or not?” 

“ Well,” replied Henry Dornham, with a sullen frown, “I can 
just say this — it is well there are strong bars between us; if there 
were not you would not live to ask such another question.” 


186 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“Will you answer me?” said Lord Arleigh, gently, 

“ No, I will not — why should I? You belong to a class I hate 
and detest — a class of tyrants and oppressors.” 

“Why should you? I will tell you in a few words. I am 
interested in the fate of your wife and daughter.” 

“My what?” cried the convict, with a look of wonder. 

“Your wife and daughter,” said Lord Arleigh. 

“My daughter!” exclaimed the man. “Good Heaven! Oh, T 
see! Well, go on. You are interested in my wife and daughter 
— what else?” 

“There is one thing I can do which would not only be of 
material benefit to them, but would make your daughter very 
happy. It cannot be done unless we can prove your innocence.” 

“Poor little Madaline,” said the convict, quietly — “poor, 
pretty little girl!” 

Lord Arleigh’s whole soul revolted on hearing this man speak 
so of his fair, young wife. That this man, with heavy iron bars 
separating him, as though he were a wild animal, from the rest 
of the world, should call his wife “ poor, pretty little Madaline.” 

“ I would give,” said Lord Arleigh, “ a great deal to find that 
your conviction had been a mistake. I know circumstances of 
that kind will and do happen. Tell me honestly, is there any, 
even the least probability, of finding out anything to your ad- 
vantage?” 

“Well,” replied Henry Dornham, “I am a ne’er-do-well by 
nature. I was an idle boy, an idle youth, and an idle man. I 
poached when I had a chance. I lived on my wife’s earnings. 
I went to the bad as deliberately as any one in the world did, 
but I do not remember that I ever told a willful lie.” 

There passed through Lord Arleigh’s mind a wish that the 
Duchess of Hazlewood might have heard this avowal. 

“I do not remember,” the man said again, “that I have ever 
told a willful lie in my life. I will not begin now. You asked 
me if I was really guilty. Yes, I was — guilty just as my judges 
pronounced me to be!” 

For a few minutes Lord Arleigh was silent; the disappoint- 
ment was almost greater than he could bear. He had anticipated 
so much from this interview; and now by these deliberately 
spoken words his hopes were ended — he would never be able to 
take his beautiful young wife to his heart and home. The bit- 
terness of the disappointment seemed almost greater than he 
could bear. He tried to recover himself, while Henry Dorn- 
ham went on: 

“ The rich never have anything to do with the poor without 
harm comes of it. Why did they send me to the duke’s house? 
Why did he try to patronize me? Why did he parade his gold 
and silver plate before my eyes?” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


187 


The passion of his words seemed to inflame him. 

“ Whv,” he continued angrily, “ should he eat from silver while 
others were without bread? Why should his wife wear diamonds 
while mine cried with hunger and cold? I saw how unjust it 
was. W^ho placed his foot on my neck? Who made him my 
master and tyrant, patronizing me with his ‘ my good fellow' 
this and the other? What right had he to such abundance 
while I had nothing?” 

“ That which was his,” said Lord Arleigh, bluntly, “at least 
was not yours to take.” 

“But I say it was! I helped myself before, and, if I were 
out of this place, having the chance, 1 would help myself again.” 

“That would be equally criminal,” said Lord Arleigh, fear- 
lessly j and again Henry Lornham laughed his cynical laugh. 

“It is too late in the day for me to talk over these matters,” 
said the convict. ^ “When I roamed in the woods as a free man, 
I had my own ideas; prison has not improved them. I shall 
never make a reformed convict — not even a decent ticket-of- 
leave man. So if you have any thought of reclaiming me, rid 
your mind of it at once.” 

“It will be best to d(» so, I perceive,” observed Lord Arleigh. 
“I had some little hope when I came in — I have none now.” 

“ You do not mean to say, though, that I am not to be any the 
better off for your visit?” cried the man. “I do not know your 
name, but I can see what you are. Surely you will try to do 
something for me?” 

“ What can I^ do?” asked Lord Arleigh. “If you had been 
innocent — even if there had been what they call extenuating 
circumstances — I would have spent a fortune in the endeavor to 
set you free; but your confession renders me powerless.” 

“The only extenuating circumstance in the whole affair,” 
declared the man, after a pause, “was that I wanted money, and 
took what I thought would bring it. So vou would give a 
small fortune to clear me, eh?” he interrogated. 

< “Yes,” was the brief reply. 

The man looked keenly at him. 

“Then you must indeed have a strong motive. It is not for 
my own sake, I suppose?” A new idea occurred to him. A 
pdden smile curled his lip. “I have it!” he said. “You are 
in love with my — with pretty little Madaline, and you want to 
marry her! If you could make me out innocent', you would 
marry her; if you cannot— what then? Am I right?” 

All the pride of his nature rose in rebellion against this coarse 
speech. He, an Arleigh of Beech grove, to hear this reprobate 
sneering at his love! His first impulse was an angry one, but 
he controlled himself. After all, it was Madaline’s father— for 
Madaline’s sake he would be patient. 


188 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ Am I right?'’ the prisoner repeated, with the same mocking 
smile, 

“No,” replied Lord Arleigh, “you are not right. There is 
no need for me to offer any explanation, and, as I have failed in 
my object, I will go.” 

“You might just as well tell me if you are in love with my 
little Madaline. I might make it worth vour while to let me 
know.” 

It was with great difficulty that Lord Arleigh controlled his 
indignation; but he replied, calmly: 

“ I have nothing to tell you.” 

A look of disappointment came over the dark, handsome face. 

“ Y^ou can keep your secrets,” he said — “ so can I. If you will 
tell me notning, neither shall I; but I might make it worth your 
while to trust me.” 

“I have nothing to confide,” returned Lord Arleigh; “ all I 
can say to you on leaving is that I hope you will come to your 
senses and repent of your j^ast wickedness.” 

“ I shall begin to think that you are a missionary in disguise,” 
said Henry Dornham. “ So you will not offer me anything for 
my secret?” he interrogated. 

“ No secret of yours could interest me,” rejoined Lord Ar- 
leigh, abruptly, as he went away. 

So, for the second time in his life, he was at the door of the 
mystery, yet it remained unopened. The first time was when he 
was listening to Lord Mount dean’s story, when the mention of 
the name Dornham should lead to a denouement; the second was 
now, when, if he had listened to the convict, he would have 
heard that Madaline was not his child. 

He left Chatham sick at heart. There was no help for him — 
his fate was sealed. Never, while he lived, could he make his 
beautiful wife his own truly — they were indeed parted for ever- 
more. There remained to him to write that letter; should 
he consent to Madaline’s mother living with her or should he 
not? 

He reflected long and anxiously, and then having w^ell 
weighed the matter he decided that he would not refuse his 
wife her request. He must run the risk, but he would not 
caution her. 

He wrote to Madaline, and told her that he would be pleased 
if she were pleased, and that he hoped she would be happy with 
her mother, adding the caution that he trusted, she would im- 
press upon her mother the need of great reticence, and that she 
must not mention the unfortunate circumstances of the family 
to any creature living. 

Madaline’s- answer touched him. She assured him that there 
was no fear — that her motlior was to be implicitly trusted. She 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


189 


told him also how entirely she had kept the secret of his separa- 
tion from her, lest it should add to lier mother’s* trouble. 

“ She will know now that I do not live with you, that I never 
see you, that we are as strangers, but she will never know the 
reason.” 

He was deeply moved. What a noble girl she was, bear- 
ing her troubles so patiently, and confiding them to no human 
soul! 

Then he was compelled to go to Beechgrove — it was long since 
he had been there, and so much required attention, he was 
obliged to go, sorely against his will, for he dreaded the sight of 
tiie place, haunted as it was by the remembrance of t*he love 
and sorrow of his young wife. He avoided going as long as 
})ossible, but the place needed the attention of a master. 

It was June when he went — bright, smiling, perfumed, sunny 
JniH? — and Beechgrove was at its best; the trees were in full 
foi’.i the green woods resounded with the song of birds, the 
g.n .; -ns were filled with flowers, the whole estate was blooming 
aiKii iir. He took up his abode there. It was soon noticed in 
the house that he avoided the picture-gallery — nothing ever in- 
duced him to enter it. More than once, as he was walking 
through the woods, his heart beat and his face flushed; there, 
beyond the trees lived his wife, his darling, from whom a fate 
more cruel than death had parted him. His wife! The longing 
to see her grew on him from day to day. She was so near him, 
yet so far away — she was so fair, yet her beauty must all fade 
and die; it was not for him. 

In time he began to think it strange that he had never heard 
anything of her. He went about in the neighborhood, yet no 
one spoke of having seen her. He never heard of her being at 
f hnrch, nor did he ever meet her on the high-road. It was 
sii ange how completely a vail of silence and mystery had fallen 
over her. 

SS hen he had been some time at Beechgrove he received one 
.•norning a letter from the Earl of Moiintdean, saying that he 
as in the neighborhood, and would like to call. Lord Ar- 
leigh was i)leased at the prospect. There was deep and real 
cordiality between the two men — they thoroughly understood 
and liked each other; it was true that the earl was older by 
many years than Lord Arleigh, but that did not affect their 
friendship. 

They enjoyed a few days together very much. One morning 
they rode through the woods — the sweet, fragrant, June, woods 
— when, from between the trees, they saw the square turrets of 
the Dower House. Lord Mountdean stopped to admire the 
view. 


190 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“We are a long distance from Beecligrove,” be said; “ wliat 
is that pretty place?” 

Lord Arleigh’s face flushed hotly. 

“That,” he replied, “is the Dower House, where my wife 
lives.” 

The earl looked with great interest at Lady Arleigh’s dwelling- 
l^lace. 

“ It is very pretty,” he said — “pretty and quiet; but it must 
be dull for a young girl. You said she was young, did you 
not?’ 

“Yes, she is years younger than I am,” replied Lord Ar- 
leigh. 

“ Poor girl!” said the earl, pityingly; “ it must be rather a sad 
fate — so young and beautiful, yet condemned all her life to live 
alone. Tell me, Arleigh, did you take advice before you separ- 
ated yourself so abruptly from her?” 

“No,” replied Lord Arleigh, “I did not even seek it; the 
matter apj^eared plain enough to me.” 

“I should not like you to think me curious,” pursued the 
earl. “ We are true friends now, an<l we can trust each other. 
You liave every confidence in me, and I have complete faith in 
you. I would intrust to you the dearest secret of my heart. 
Arleigh, tell me what I know you have told to no human 
being — the reason of your separation from the wife you love.” 

Lord Arleigh hesitated for one half minute. 

“What good can it possibly do?” he said. 

“ I am a great believer in the good old proverb that two heads 
are better than one,” replied the earl. “I think it is just pos- 
sible that I might have some idea that has not occurred to you; 
I might see some way out of the difliculty, that has not yet pre- 
sented itself to you. Please yourself about it; either trust me 
or not, as you will; but if you do trust me, rely upon it I shall 
find some way of helping you. ” 

“ It is a hopeless case,” observed Lord Arleigh, sadly. “I 
am quite sure that even if you knew all about it, you would not 
see any comfort for me. For my wife’s sake I hesitate to tell 
you, not for my own.” 

“Your wife’s secret will be as safe with me as wdth yourself,” 
said the earl. 

“I never thought that it w’ould pass my lips, but I do trust 
you,” declared Lord Arleigh; “and if you can see any way to 
help me. I shall thank Heaven for the first day I met you. "You 
must hold my wife blameless. Lord Mountdean,” he went on. 
“She never spoke untruthfully, she never deceived me; but on 
our wedding-day I discovered that her father was a convict — a 
man of the lowest criminal type.” 

Lord Mountdean looked as lie fedt, shocked. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


191 


“But how,” he asked, eagerly, “could you be so deceived?” 

“That I can never tell you; it was an act of liendish revenge 
—cruel, ruthless, treacherous. I cannot reveal the perpetrator. 
My wife did not deceive me, did not even know that I had been 
deceived; she thought, poor child, that I was acquainted with 
the whole of her father’s story, but I was not. And now, 
Lord Mountdean, tell me, do you think I did wrong?” 

He raised his care-worn, haggard face as he asked the ques- 
tion, and the earl was disturbed at sight of the terrible pain 
in it. 


CHAPTEE XXXVIT. 

The reason of his separation from his wife revealed, Lord Ar- 
leigh again put the question : 

“Do you think. Lord Mountdean, that I have done w.rong?” 

The earl looked at him. 

“No,” he replied, “ I cannot say that you have.” 

“I loved her,” continued Lord Arleigh, “but I could not 
make tne daughter of a convict the mistress of my house, the 
mother of my children. I could not let my children point to a 
felon’s cell as the cradle of their origin. I could not sully my 
name, outrage a long line of noble ancestors, by making my 
poor wife mistress of Beechgrove. Say, if the same thing had 
happened to you, would you not have acted in like manner?” 

“ I believe *^that I should,” answered the earl, gravely. 

“However dearly you might love a woman, you could not 
place your coronet on the brow of a convict’s daughter,” said 
Lord Arleigh. “I love my wife a thousand times better than 
my life, yet I could not make her mistress of Beechgrove.” 

“It was a cruel deception,” observed the earl — “one that it 
is impossible to understand. She herself — the lady you have 
made your wife — must be quite as unhappy as yourself.” 

“If it be possible she is more so,” returned Lord Arleigh; 
“but tell me, if I had appealed to yon in the dilemma — if I 
had asked your advice — wliat would you have said to me?” 

“ I should have no resource but to tell you to act as you have 
done,” replied the earl; “no matter what pain and sorrow it en- 
tailed, you could not have done otherwise.” 

“I thought you w^ould agree with me. And now, Mountdean, 
tell me, do you see any escape from my difficulty?” 

“ I do not, indeed,” replied the earl. 

“I had one hope,” resumed Lord Arleigh; “and timt '.vas that 
the father had perhaps been unjustly sentenced, or that lie might 


192 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


a-fter all prove to be innocent. I went to see him — he is one of 
the convicts working at Chatham.” 

“You went to see him!” echoed the earl, in surprise. 

“Yes; and I gave up all hope from the moment I saw him. 
He is simply a handsome reprobate. I asked him if it was true 
that he had committed the crime, and he answered me quite 
frank, ‘ Yes.’ I asked him if there were any extenuating circum- 
stances; he replied ‘want of money.’ When I had seen and 
spoken to him, I felt convinced that the step I had taken with re- 
gard to my wife was a wise one, however cruel it may have been. 
No man in his senses would voluntarily admit a criminal’s 
daughter into his family.” 

“No; it is even a harder case than I thought it,” said the earl. 
“ The only thing I can recommend is resignation.” 

Lord Mountdean thought that he would like to see the hap- 
less young wife, and learn if she suffered as her husband did. 
He wondered too what she could be like, this convict’s daugh- 
ter who had been gifted with a regal dower of grace and beauty 
— this lowly-born child of the people who had been fair enough 
to charm the fastidious Lord Arleigh. 

Meanwhile Madaline was all unconscious of the strides that 
destiny was making in her favor. She had thought her hus- 
band’s letter all that was most kind; and, though she felt that 
there was no real grounds for it, she impressed upon her mother 
the need of the utmost reticence. Margaret Dornham under- 
stood from the first. 

“Never have a moment’s uneasiness, Madaline,” she said. 
“From the hour I cross your threshold until I leave, your fa- 
ther’s name shall never pass my lips.” 

It w^as a little less dreary for Madaline when her mother was 
with her. Though they did not talk much, and had but few 
tastes alike, Margaret was all devotion, all attention to her 
child. 

8iie was sadly at a loss to understand matters. She had quite 
expected to find Madaline living at Beechgrove — she could not 
imagine why she was alone in Winiston House. The arrange- 
ment had seemed reasonable enough while Lord Arleigh was 
abroad, but now that he had returned to England, why did he 
not come to his wife; or why did not she go to him? She could 
not understand it; and as Madaline volunteered no explanation, 
her mother asked for none. 

But, when day after day she saw her daughter fading away — 
when she saw the fair face lose its color, the eyes their light — 
when she saw the girl shrink from the sunshine and the fiowers, 
from all that was bright and beautiful, from all that was cheer- 
ful and exhilarating — she knew that her soul was sick unto 
death. She would look with longing eyes at the calm, resigned 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 193 

face, wishing with all her heart that she might speak, yet not 
daring to do so. 

What seemed to her even more surprisng was that no one ap- 
peared to think such a state of things strange; and when she had 
been at Winiston some few weeks, she discovered that, as far as 
the occupants of the house were concerned, the condition of 
matters was not viewed as extraordinary. She oflered no remark * 
to the servants, and they offered none to her, but from casual ob- 
servations she gathered that her daughter had never been to 
Beechgrove, but had lived at Winiston all her married life, and 
that Lord Arleigh had never been to visit her. 

How was this? What did the terrible pain in her daughter’s 
face mean? Why was her bright young life so slowly but surely 
fading away? She noted it for some time in silence, and then 
she decided to speak. 

One morning when Madaline had turned with a sigh from the 
old-fashioned garden with its wilderness of flowers, Margaret* 
said, gently: 

“Madaline, I never hear you speak of the Duchess of Hazle- 
wood, who was so very kind to you. Does she never come to 
see you?” 

She saw the. vivid crimson mount to the white brow, to be 
speedily replaced by a pallor terrible to behold. 

“My darling,” she cried, in distress, “I did not expect to 
grieve you!” 

“Why should I be grieved?” said the girl, quietly. “The 
duchess does not come to see me because she acted to me very 
cruelly; and I never write to her now.” 

Then Margaret for awhile was silent. How was she to bring 
forward the subject nearest to her heart? She cast about for 
words in which to express her thoughts. 

“Madaline,” she said, at last, “no one has a greater respect 
than I have for the honor of husband and wife; I mean for the good 
faith and confidence there should be between them. In days 
gone by I never spoke of your poor father’s faults — I never al- 
lowed any one to mention them to me. If any of the neighbors 
ever tried to talk about him, I w'ould not allow it. So, my 
darling, do not consider that there is any idle curiosity in what 
I am about to say to you. I thought you were so happily mar- 
ried, my dear; and it is a bitter disappointment to me to find 
that such is not the case.” 

There came no reply from Lady Arleigh; her hands were held 
before her eyes. 

“lam almost afraid, dearly as I love you, to ask you the 
question,” Margaret continued; “but, Madaline, will you tell 
me why you do not live with your husband?” 

“I cannot, mother,” was the brief reply. 


194 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


** Is it — oh, tell me, dear! — is it any fault of yours? Have you 
displeased him?” 

“It is through no fault of mine, mother. He says so him- 
self.” 

“Is it from any fault of his? Has he done anything to dis- 
please YOU?” 

• “No,” she answered, with sudden warmth, “he has not— in- 
deed, he could not, I love him so.” 

“ Then, if you have not displeased each other, and really love 
each other, why are you parted in this strange fashion? It 
seems to me, Madaline, that you are his wife only in name.” 

“ You are right, mother — and I shall never be any more; but 
do not ask me why— I can never tell you. The secret must live 
and die with me.” 

“ Then I shall never know it, Madaline?” 

“Never, mother,” she answered. 

“But do you know, my darling, that it is wearing your life 
away?” 

“ Yes, T know it, but I cannot alter matters. And, mother,” 
she continued, “if we are to be good friends and live together, 
you must never mention this to me again.” 

“I will remember,” said Margaret, kissing the thin white 
hands, but to herself she said matters sliould not so continue. 
Were Lord Arleigh twenty times a lord, he should not break his 
wife’s heart in that cold, cruel fashion. 

A sudden resolve came to Mrs. Dornham — she would go to 
Beechgrove and see him herself. It he were angry and sent her 
away from Winiston House, it would not matter— she would 
have told him the truth. And the truth that she had to tell 
him vras that the separation was slowly but surely killing his 
wife. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Margaret Dornham knew no peace until she had carried out 
her intention. It was but right, she said to herself, that Lord 
Arleigh should know that his fair young wife was dying. 

“ What right had he to marry her?” she asked herself indig- 
nantly, “if he meant to break her heart?” 

What could he have left her for? It could not have been be- 
cause of her poverty or her father’s crime — he knew of both be- 
forehand. What was it? In vain did she recall all that Mada- 
line had ever said about her husband— she could see no light 
in the darkness, find no solution to the mystery: therefore the 
only course open to her was to go to Lord Arleigh, and to tell 
him that his wife was dying. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


195 


“There may possibly have been some slight misunderstand- 
ing between them which one little interview might remove,” she 
thought. 

One day she invented some excuse for her absence from Win- 
iston House, and started on her expedition, strong with the love 
that makes the weakest heart brave. She drove the greater part 
of the distance, and then dismissed the carriage, resolving to 
walk the remainder of the way — she did not w'ish the servants 
to know whither she was going. It was a delightful morning, 
warm, brilliant, sunny. The hedge-rows were full of wild roses, 
there was a faint odor of newly-mown hay, the westerly wind 
w^as soft and sweet. 

As Margaret Dornham walked through the woods, she fell 
deeply into thought. Almost for the first time a great doubt 
had seized her, a doubt that made her tremble and fear. 
Through many long years she had clung to Madaline — she had 
thought her love and tender care of more consequence to the 
child than anything else. Knowing nothing of her father’s rank 
or position, she had flattered herself into believing that she had 
been Madaline’s best friend in childhood. Now there came to 
her a terrible doubt. What if she had stood in Madaline’s 
light, instead of being, her friend? She had not been informed 
of the arrangements between the doctor and his patron, but 
people had said to her, when the doctor died, that the child had 
better be sent to the work-house — and that had frightened her. 
Now she wondered whether she had done right or wrong. What 
if she, who of all the world had been the one to love Madaline 
best, had been her greatest foe? 

Thinking of this, she walked along the soft greensward. She 
thought of the old life in the pretty cottage at Ash wood, where 
for so short a time she had been happy with her handsome, 
ne’er-do-well husband, whom at first she had loved so blindly; 
she thought of the lovely, golden-haired child which she had 
loved so wildly, and of the kind, clever doctor, who had been 
so suddenly called to his account; and then her thoughts wan- 
dered to the stranger who had intrusted his child to her care. 
Had she done wrong in leaving him all these years in such utter 
ignorance of his child’s welfare? Had she wronged him? 
Ought she to have waited patiently until he had returned or 
sent? If she were ever to meet him again, would he overwhelm 
her with reproaches? She thought of his tall, erect figure, of 
his handsome face, so sorrowful and sad, of his mournful eyes, 
which always looked as though his heart lay buried with his 
dead wife. 

Suddenly her face grew deathly pale, her lips flew apart with 
a terrified crv, her whole frame trembled. She raised her hands 
as one who would fain ward off a blow, for, standing just before 


196 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


her, looking down on her with stern, indignant eyes, was the 
stranger who had intrusted his child to her. 

For some minutes — how many she never knew — they stood 
looking at each other — he stern, indignant, haughty, she trem- 
bling, frightened, cowed. 

“I recognize you again,” he said, at length, in a harsh voice. 

Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet. 

“ Woman,” he cried, “ where is my child?” 

She made him no answer, but covered her face with her 
hands. 

“Where is my child?” he repeated. “I intrusted her to you 
--where is she?” 

The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which 
he could not hear. 

“ Where is my child?” he demanded. “What have you done 
with her? For Heaven’s sake, answer me!” he implored. 

Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he 
bent over her. If ever in his life Lord Mountdean lost his tem- 
per, he lost it then. He could almost, in his impatience, have 
forgotten that it was a woman who was kneeling at his feet, and 
could have shaken her until she spoke intelligibly. His anger 
was so great he could have struck her. But he controlled him- 
self. 

“ I am not the most patient of men, Margaret Dornham,” he 
said; “ and you are trying me terribly. In the name of Heaven, 
I ask you, what have you done with my child?” 

“I have not injured her,” she sobbed. 

“Is she living or dead?” asked the earl, with terrible calm- 
ness. 

“ She is living,” replied the weeping woman. 

Lord Mountdean raised his face reverently to the summer 
sky. 

“ Thank Heaven!” he said, devoutly; and then added, turn- 
ing to the woman — “Living and well?” 

“ No, not well; but she will be in time. Oh, sir, forgive me! 
I did wrong, perhaps, but I thought I was acting for the best.” 

“ It was a strange ‘ best,’ ” he said, “ to place a child beyond 
its parent’s reach.” 

“Oh, sir,” cried Margaret Dornham, “I never thought of 
that! She came to me in my dead child’s place — it was to me 
as though my own child had come back again. You could not 
tell how I loved her. Her little head lay on my breast, her 
little fingers caressed me, her little voice murmured sweet words 
to me. She was my own child — I loved her so, sir!” and the 
poor woman’s voice was broken with sobs. “ All the world was 
hard and cruel and cold to me — the child never was; all the 
world disappointed me — the child never did. My heart and 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


197 


soul clung to her. And then, sir, when she was able to run 
about, a pretty, graceful, loving child, the very joy of my heart 
and sunshine of my life, the doctor died, and I was left alone 
with her.” 

She paused for some few minutes, her whole frame shaken 
with sobs. The earl, bending down, spoke kindly to her. 

‘•I am quite sure,” he said, “that if you erred it has been 
through love for my child. Tell me all — have no fear.” 

“ I was in the house, sir,” she continued, “when the poor 
doctor was carried home dead — in his sitting-room with my — 
with little Madaline — and when I saw the confusion that fol- 
lowed uiDon his death, I thought of the papers in the oaken 
box; and, without saying a word to any one, I took it and hid it 
under my shawl.” 

“ But, tell me,” said the earl, kindly, “ why did you do 
that?” 

“I can hardly remember now,” she replied — “it is so long 
since. I think my chief motive was dread lest my darling 
should be taken from me. I thought that, if strangers opened 
the box and found out who she was, they would take her away 
from me, and I should never see her again. I knew that the 
box held all the papers relating to her, so I took it deliber- 
ately. ” 

“Then, of course,” said the pari, “you know her history?” 

“No,” she replied, quickly; “ I have never opened the box.” 

“Never opened it!” he exclaimed, wonderingly. 

“ No, sir — I have never even touched it; it is wrapped in my 
old shawl just as I brought it away.” 

“But why have you never opened it?” he asked, still wonder- 
ing. 

“Because, sir, I did not wdsh to know who the little child 
really was, lest, in discovering that, I should discover something 
also which would compel me to give her up.” 

Lord Mountdean looked at her in astonishment. How 
woman-like she was! How full of contradictions! What 
strength and weakness, what honor and dishonor, what love and 
selfishness did not her conduct reveal! 

“Then,” continued Margaret Dornham, “when the doctor 
died, people frightened me. They said that the child must go 
to the work-house. My husband soon afterward got into dread- 
ful trouble, and I determined to leave the village. I tell the 
truth, sir. I was afraid, too, that you would return and claim 
the child; so I took her away with me to London. My husband 
was quite indifferent — I could do as I liked, he said. I took 
her and left no trace behind. After we reached London, my 
husband got into trouble again; but I always did my best for 


198 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


tlie darling child. She was well dressed, well fed, well cared 
for, well educated — she has had the training of a lady.” 

“ But,” put in Lord Mountdean, “ did you never read my ad- 
vertisments?” 

“ No, sir,” she replied; “ I have not been in the habit of read- 
ing newspapers. ” 

“It was strange that you should remain hidden in London 
while people were looking for you,” he said. “ W^hat was your 
husband’s trouble, Mrs. Dornham?” 

“ He committed a burglary, sir; and, as he had been convict- 
ed before, his sentence was a heavy one.” 

“ And my daughter, you say, is living, but not well? Where 
is she?” 

“I will take you to her, sir,” was the reply — “at once, if you 
will go.” 

“I will not lose a minute,” said the earl, hastily. “It is 
time, Mrs. Dornham, that you knew my name, and my daugh- 
ter’s also. I am the Earl of Mountdean, and she is Lady Mada- 
line Charlewood.” 

On hearing this, Margaret Dornham was more frightened 
than ever. She rose from her knees and stood before him. 

“ If I have done wrong, my lord,” she said, “ I beg of you to 
pardon me — it w'as all, as I thought, for the best. So the child 
whom I have loved and cherished was a grand lady after 
all?” 

“Do not let us lose a moment,” he said. “Where is my 
daughter?” 

“ She lives not far from here; but we cannot walk — the dis- 
tance is too great,” replied Margaret. 

“Well, we are near to the town of Lynton — it is not twenty 
minutes walk; we will go to an hotel, and get a carriage. I— I 
can hardly endure this suspense.” 

He never thought to ask her how she had come thither; it 
never occurred to him. His whole soul was wrapped in the one 
idea — that he was to see his child again — Madaline’s child — the 
little babe he had held in his arms, whose little face he had be- 
dewed with tears — his own child — the daughter he had lost for 
long vears and had tried so hard to find. He never noticed 
the summer woods through which he was passing; he never 
heard the wild birds’ song; of sunshine or shade he took no 
note. The heart within him was on fire, for he was going to see 
liis only child — his lost child— the daughter whose voice he had 
never heard. 

“Tell me,” he said, stopping abruptly, and looking at Mar- 
garet, “ you saw my poor wife when she lay dead — is my child 
like her?” 

Margaret answered quickly. 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


199 


‘‘ She is like her; but, to my mind, she is a thousand times 
fairer.” 

They reached the principal hotel at Lynton, and Lord Mount- 
dean called hastily for a carriage. Not a moment v/as to be 
lost — time pressed. 

“ You know the way,” he said to Margaret, “will you direct 
the driver?” 

He did not think to ask where his daughter lived, if she was 
married or single, what she was doing or anything else; his one 
thought was that he had found her — found lier, never to lose her 
again. 

He sat with his face shaded by his hand during the whole 
of the drive, thanking Heaven that he had found Madaline’s 
child. He never noticed the woods, the high-road bordered 
with trees, the carriage-drive with its avenue of chestnuts; he 
did not even recognize the picturesque, quaint old Dower House 
that he had admired so greatly some little time before. He saw 
a large mansion, but it never occurred to him to ask whether his 
daughter was mistress or servant; he only knew that the carriage 
had Btoj^ped, and that very shortly he should see his child. 

Presently he found himself in a large hall gay with flowers 
and covered with Indian matting, and Margaret Dorn ham Was 
trembling before him. 

“My lord,” she said, “your daughter is ill, and I am afraid 
the agitation may Throve too much for her. Tell me, what shall 
I do?” 

He collected his scattered thoughts. 

“ Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “ that she has been kept 
in complete ignorance of her history all these years?” 

“She has been brought up in the belief that she is my daugh- 
ter,” said Margaret — “slie knows nothing else.” 

A dark frown came over the earl’s face. 

“It was wickedly unjust,” he said — “ cruelly unjust. Let me 
go to her at once,” 

Pale, trembling, and frightened, Margaret led the way. It 
secnned to the earl that his heart had stopped beating, and a 
thick mist was spread before his eyes, that the surging of a deep 
sea filled his ears. Oh, Heaven, could it be that after all these 
years he was really going to see Madaline’s child, his own lost 
daughter? Very soon he found himself looking on a fair face 
framed in golden hair, with dark blue eyes, full of passion, 
poetry, and sorrow, sweet crimson lips, sensitive, and delicate, 
a face so lo’^ely that its pure, saint-like expression almost 
frightened him. He looked at it in a passion of wonder and 
grief, of love and longing; and then he saw a shadow of fear 
gradually darken the beautiful eyes. 


200 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


“ Madaline,” he said gently; and she looked at him in wonder. 
“ Madaline,” he repeated. 

“I — I — do not know you,” she replied, surprised. 

She was lying, when he entered the room, on a little couch 
drawn close to the window, the sunlight, which fell full upon 
her, lighting up the golden hair and refined face with unearthly 
beauty. When he uttered her name, she stood up, and so like her 
mother did she appear that it was with difficulty he could refrain 
from clasping her in his arms. But he must not startle her, he 
reflected — he saw how fragile she was. 

“ You call me Madaline,” she said again — “ but I do not know 
you.” 

Before answering her. Lord Mountdean turned to Mar- 
garet. 

“Will you leave us alone?” he requested, but Lady Arleigh 
stretched out her hand. 

“ That is my mother,” she said — “ she must not be sent away 
from me.” 

“I will not be long away, Madaline. You must listen to 
what this gentleman says — and, my dear, do not let it upset 
you.” 

Mrs. Dorn ham retired, closing the door carefully behind 
her, and Lady Arleigh and the earl stood looking at each 
other. 

“ You call me Madaline,” she said, “ and you send my mother 
from me. What can you have to say?” A sudden thought 
occurred to her. “Has Lord Arleigh sent you to me?” she 
asked. 

“ Lord Arleigh!” he repeated, in wonder. “ No, he has nothing 
to do with what I have to say. Sit down— you do not look strong 
— and I will tell you why I am here.” 

It never occurred to him to ask why she had named Lord Ar- 
leigh. He saw her sink, half exhausted, half frightened, upon 
the couch, and he sat down by her side. 

“Madaline,” he began, “will you look at me, and see if my 
face brings back no dream, no memory to you? Yet how foolish 
I am to think of such a thing! How can you remember me when 
your baby-eyes rested on me for only a few minutes?” 

“I do not remember you,” she said, gently — “I have never 
seen you before. ” 

“My poor child,” he returned, in a tone so full of tenderness 
and pain that she was startled by it, “this is hard!” 

“ You cannot be the gentleman I used to see sometimes in the 
early home that I only just remember, who used to amuse me 
by showing me his watch and take me out for drives?” 

“ No, I never saw you, Madaline, as a child— I left you when 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


201 


yon were three or four days old. I have never seen yon since, 
although I have spent a fortune almost in searching for you.** 

“You have?’* she said, wonderingly. “Who then are you?** 

“ That is wliat I want to tell you without startling you, Mada- 
line — dear Heaven, how strange it seems to utter that name 
again! You have always believed that good woman who has just 
quitted the room to be your mother?” 

“Yes, always,” she repeated, wonderingly. 

“And that wretched man, the convict, you have always be- 
lieved to be your father?” 

“Always,” she repeated. 

“ Will it pain or startle you very much t© hear that they are 
not even distantly related to you — that the woman was simply 
chosen as your foster mother because she had just lost her own 
child?” 

“ I cannot believe it,** she cried, trembling violently. “Who 
are you who tells me this?” 

“lam Hubert, Earl of Mountdean,** he replied, “ and, if you 
will allow me, I will tell you what else I am. ** 

“ Tell me,** she said, gently. 

“ I am your father, Madaline — and the best part of my life has 
been spent in looking for you.** 

“ My father,** she said, faintly. “ Then I am not the daugh- 
ter of a convict— my father is an earl?” 

“lam your father,” he repeated, “ and you, child, have your 
mother’s face. ** 

“And she — who has just left us — is nothing to me?” 

“Nothing. Do not tremble, my dear child. Listen — try to 
be brave. Let me hold your hands in mine while I tell you a 
true story.” 

He held her trembling hands while he told her the story of 
bis life, of his marriage, of the sudden and fatal journey, and 
her mother’s death — told it in brief, clear words that left no 
shadow of doubt on her mind as to its perfect truth. 

“Of your nurse’s conduct,” he said, “I forbear to speak — it 
was cruel, wicked; but, as love for you dictated it, I will say no 
more. My dear child, you must try to forget this unhappy past, 
and let me atone to you for it. I cannot endure to think that 
my daughter and heiress. Lady Madaline Charlewood, should 
have spent her youth under so terrible a cloud.” 

There came no answer, and, looking at her, he saw that the 
color had left her face, that the white eyelids had fallen over the 
blue eyes, that the white lips were parted and cold — she had 
fainted, fallen into a dead swoon. 

He knelt by her side and called to her with passionate cries, 
he kissed the white face and tried to recall the wandering 


202 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


senses, and then he rang the bell with a heavy peal. Mrs. Dorn- 
ham came hurrying in. 

“Look!” said Lord Mountdean. “I have been as careful as 
I could, but that is your work.” 

Margaret Dornham knelt by the side of the senseless girl. 

“I would give my life to undo my past folly, ” she said. 
“Oh, my lord, can you ever forgive me?” 

He saw the passionate love that she had for her foster-child; 
he saw that it was a motlier’s love, tender, true, devoted and 
self-sacrificing, though mistaken. He could not be angry, for 
he saw that her sorrow even exceeded his own. 

To his infinite j(w, Madaline presently opened her dark eyes 
and looked up at him. She stretched out her hands to him. 

“ My father,” she said — “ you are really my father?” 

He kissed her face. 

“ Madaline,” he replied, “my heart is too full for words. I 
have spent seventeen years in looking for you, and have found 
you at last. My dear child, we have seventeen years of love 
and happiness to make up.” 

“It seems like an exquisite dream,” she said. “Can it be 
true?” 

He saw her lovely face grow crimson, and bending her fair, 
shapely head, she whispered: 

“Papa, does Lord Arleigh know?” 

“Lord Arleigh!” he repeated. “My dear child, this is the 
second time you have mentioned him. What has he to do with 
you?” 

She looked up at him in wonder. 

“Do you not know?” she asked. “Have they not told you 
I am Lord Arleigh’s wife?” 

•K-******* 

, Lord Arleigh felt very disconsolate that June morning. The 
world was so beautiful, so bright, so fair, it seemed hard that 
he should have no pleasure in it. If fate had but been kinder 
to him! To increase his dullness. Lord Mountdean, who had 
been staying with him some days, had suddenly disappeared. 
He had gone out early in the morning, saying that he would 
have a long ramble in the woods, and would probably not re- 
turn until noon for luncheon. Noon had come and passed, 
luncheon was served, yet there was no sign of the earl. Lord 
Arleigh was not uneasy, but he longed for his friend’s society. 

At last he decided upon going in search of him. He had per- 
haps lost his way in the woods, or he had mistaken some road. 
It was high time that they looked after him — he had been so 
many hours absent without apparent cause. Lord Arleigh 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


203 


■wliistled for liis two favorite dogs, Nero and Venus, and started 
out ill search of his friend. 

He went through the woods and down the hi'^h-road, hut 
there was no sign of the earl. “ He must have walked home by 
another route,” thought Lord Arleigh; and he 'went back to 
Beechgrove. He did not find the earl there, but the groom, who 
had evidently been riding fast, was waiting for him in the hall. 

“ My lord,” he said, “I was directed to give you this at once, 
and beg of you not to lose a moment’s time.” 

Wondering what had happened. Lord Arleigh opened the note 
and read: 

“ My DEMI Lord Arleigh: Something too wonderful for me 
to set down in words has happened. I am at the Dower House, 
Winiston. Come at once, and lose no time. Mountdean.” 

“At the Dower House?” mused Lord Arleigh. “What can 
it mean?” , 

“Did the Earl of Mountdean send this himself?” he said to 
the man. 

“Yes, my lord. He bade me ride as though for life, and ask 
your lordship to hurry in the same way.” 

“Is he hurt? Has there been any accident?” 

“I have heard of no accident, my lord; but, when the earl 
came, to give me the note, he looked wild and unsettled.” 

Lord Arleigh gave orders that his fleetest horse should be 
saddled at once, and then he rede away. 

He was so absorbed in thought that more than once he had a 
narrow escape, almost striking his head against the overhanging 
boughs of the trees. What could it possibly mean? Lord 
Mountdean at the Dower House! He fancied some accident must 
have happened to him. 

He had never been to the Dower House since the night when 
he took his young wife thither, and as he rode along his thoughts 
recurred to that terrible evening. Would he see her now, he 
wondered, and would she, in her shy, pretty way, advance to 
meet him? It could not surely be that she was ill, and tliat the 
earl, having heard of it, liad sent for him. No, that could not 
be — for the note said that something wonderful had occurred. 

Speculation was evidently useless — the only thing to be done 
was to hasten as quickly as he could, and learn for himself what 
it all meant. He rode perhaps faster than he had ever ridden in 
his life before. When he reached the Dower House the horse 
was bathed in foam. He thought to himself, as he rang the 
bell at the outer gate, how strange it was that he — the husband 
— should be standing there ringing for admittance. 

A servant opened the gate, and Lord Arleigh asked if the Earl 
of Mountdean was within, and was told that he was. 


204 


WIFE m NAME ONLY. 


‘‘There is nothing the matter, I hope,” said Lord Arleigh — 
“nothing wrong?” 

The servant replied that something strange had happened, 
but he could not tell what it was. He did not think there was 
anything seriously wrong. And then Lord Arleigh entered the 
house where the years of his young wife’s life had drifted away 
so sadly. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Lord Arleigh was shown into the dining-room at Winiston 
House, and stood there impatiently awaiting the Earl of Mount- 
dean. He came in at last, but the master of Beechgrove barely 
recognized him, he was so completely changed. Years seemed 
to have fallen from him. His faceVas radiant with a great glad 
light. He held out his hand to his friend. 

“Congratulate me,” he said; “I am one of the happiest men 
in the world. ” 

“What has happened?” asked Lord Arleigh, in surprise. 

“Follow me,” said the earl; and in silence Lord Arleigh 
obeyed him. 

They came to the pretty shaded room, and the earl, entering 
first, said: 

“Now, my darling, the hour has come which will repay you 
for the sorrow of years.” 

Wondering at such words, Lord Arleigh followed his friend. 
There lay his beautiful wife, lovelier than ever, with the sun- 
light touching her hair with gold, her fair face transparent as 
the inner leaf of a rose — Madaline, his darling, who had been 
his wife in name only. 

What did it mean? Why had the earl led him thither? Was 
it wanton cruelty or kindness? His first impulse was to fall on 
his knees by the little couch and kiss his wife’s hands, his 
second to ask why he had been led thither to be tortured so. 
Madaline rose with a glad cry at his entrance, but Lord Mount- 
dean laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. 

“Lord Arleigh,” said the earl, “ tell me who this is.” 

“My wife. Lady Arleigh,” he replied. 

She bent forward with clasped hands. 

“Oh, listen, Norman,” she said, “listen.” 

“You looked upon her as the only woman you ever could love; 
you made her your wife; yet, believing her to be the daughter 
of a felon, you separated from her, preferring a life-time of 
misery to the dishonor of your name. Is it not so. Lord Ar- 
leigh?” 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


205 


“Yes,” he replied, “it is indeed so.” 

“Then now learn the truth. This lady, your wife, is not the 
daughter of a convict. In her — how happy the telling of it 
makes me — behold my daughter, the child whom for seventeen 
years I have sought incessantly — my heiress. Lady Madaline 
Chailewood, the descendant of a race as honored, as ancient, and 
as noble as your own!” 

Lord Arleigh listened like one in a dream. It could not be 
possible, it could not be true, his senses must be playing him 
false — he must be going mad. His wife — his deserted wife — the 
earl’s long-lost daughter! It was surely a cruel fable. 

His dark, handsome face grew pale, his hands trembled, his 
lips quivered like a woman’s. He was about to speak, when 
Madaline sprang forward and clasped her arms around his 
neck. 

“Oh, my darling,” she cried, “it is true — quite true! You 
need not be afraid to kiss me and to love me now — you need not 
be afraid to call me your wife — you need not be ashamed of me 
any longer. Oh, my darling, believe me, I am not a thief’s 
daughter. My father is here — an honorable man, you see, not a 
convict. Norman, you may love me now; you need not be 
ashamed of me. Oh, my love, my love, I was dying, but this 
will make me well!” 

Her golden head drooped on to his breast, the clinging arms 
tightened their hold of him. The earl advanced to them. 

“It is all true, Arleigh,” he said. “You look bewildered, 
but you need not hesitate to believe it. Later on I will tell you 
the story myself, and we will satisfy all doubts. Now be kind 
to her; she has suffered enough. Remember, I do not blame 
you, nor does she. Believing what you did, you acted for the 
best. We can only thank Heaven that the mystery is solved; 
and you can take a fair and noble maiden, who will bring honor 
to your race, to your home.” 

“My love,” said Madaline, “it seems to me a happy dream.” 

When Lord Arleigh looked around again the earl had van- 
ished, and he was alone with his fair young wife. 

******** 

Half an hour afterward Lord Arleigh and his wife stood to- 
gether under the great cedar on the lawn. They had left the 
pretty drawing-room, with its cool shade and rich fragrance, 
and Lord Arleigh stood holding his wife’s hand in his. 

“You can really forgive me, Madaline?” he said. “You owe 
me no ill-will for all that I have made you suffer?” 

She smiled as she looked at him. 

“No,” she replied. “How could there be ill-will between 


206 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


you and me? You did right — in your place I should have acted 
as you did.” 

He caressed the fair, sweet face. 

“ Thank you, my darling,” he said. “ How thin you are!” he 
added. “How you have worn yourself away with fretting! 
Wbat must I do to bring the roses" back to this sweet face, and 
the light that I remember so well to the dear eyes?” 

She looked up at him, her whole soul in her eyes. 

“Y"ou have but one thing to do, and that is— love me,” she 
said; “and then I shall be the happiest wife in all the world. 
If a choice were offered me of all the good gifts of this world, 
mine would be my husband’s love.” 

Lord Arleigh looked thoughtfully at her. The sunshine glis- 
tened through the green boughs, and touched her graceful golden 
head as with an aureole of glory. 

“lam beginning to think,” he said, “that all that happens is 
for the best. We shall be wiser and better all our lives for hav- 
ing suffered. ” 

“I think so too,” observed Madaline. 

“And my darling,” he said, “I am quite sure of another 
thing. There are many good gifts in the world— wealth, fame, 
rank, glory but the best gift of all is that which comes straight 
from Heaven — the love of a pure, good wife.” 

Looking up, they saw the earl crossing the lawn to meet 
them. 

“Madaline,” he said, gently, when he was close to them, 
“how rejoiced I am to see tliat look on your face. Y"ou have 
no thought of dying now?” 

“Not if I can help it, papa,” she replied.' 

“I think,” continued the earl, “ that this is the happiest day of 
my life. I must say this to you, Norman— that, if I had chosen 
from all the world, I could not have chosen a son whom I should 
care for more than for you, and tliat, if I liad a son of my own, 
I should have wished him to be like you. And now we will talk 
about our future- 1 am so proud to* have two children to ar- 
range for instead of one — our future, that is to have no clouds. In 
the first place, what must we do with this good foster-mother of 
yours, Madaline, whose great love for you has led to all this 
complication?” 

“I know what I should like to do,” said Lady Arleigh, 
gently. 

“Then consider it done,” put in her husband. 

“I sliould like her to live with me always',” said Lady Ar- 
leigh “in any capacity — as housekeeper, or whatever she 
would like. She has had so little happiness in her life, and she 
would find her happiness now in mine. When her unfortunate 
husband is free again, she can do as she likes — :either go abroad 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 207 

with him, or we can find them a cottage and keep them near 
us.” 

So it was arranged; and there were few happier women than 
Margaret Dornham when she heard the news. 

“I thought,” she sobbed, in a broken voice, “ that I should 
never be forgiven; and now I find that I am to be always near to 
the child for whose love I would have sacrificed the world.” 

Lord Mountdean insisted on the fullest publicity being given 
to Madaline’s abduction. 

“There is one thing,” he said, “I cannot understand — and 
that is how you came to misunderstand each other. Why did 
Madaline believe that you knew all about her story when you 
knew nothing of it? That secret, I suppose, you will keep to 
yourselves?” 

“ Yes,” replied Lord Arleigh. “The truth is, we w:ere both 
cruelly deceived — it matters little by whom and how. ” 

“That part of the story, then, will never be understood,” 
said Lord Mountdean. “ The rest must be made public, no 
matter at what cost to our feelings — there must be no privacy, 
no shadow over my daughter’s name. You give me your full 
consent, Norman?” 

“Certainly; I think your proposal is very wise,” Lord Arleigh 
replied. 

“ Another thing, Norman — I do not i\rish my daughter to go 
home to Beecbgrove until her story has been made known. 
Then I will see that all honor is paid to her.” 

So it was agreed, and great was the sensation that ensued. 
“ The Arleigh Komance,” as it was called, was carried from one 
end of the kingdom to the other. Every newspaper was filled 
with it; all other intelligence sank into insignificance when com- 
pared with it. Even the leading journals of the day curtailed 
their political articles to give a full account of the Arleigh ro- 
mance. But it was noticeable that in no way whatsoever was 
the name of the Duchess of Hazlewood introduced. 

The story was fairly told. It recalled to the minds of the 
public that some time previously Lord Arleigh had made what 
appeared a strange marriage, and that he had separated from 
his wife on their wedding-day, yet paying her such honor and 
respect that no one could possibly think any the worse of her 
for it. It reminded the world how puzzled it had been at the 
time; and now it gave a solution of the mystery. Through no 
act of deception on the part of his wife. Lord Arleigh had be- 
lieved that he knew her full history; but on their wedding-day 
he found that she was, to all appearance, the daughter of a man 
who was a convict. Therefore — continued the story — the voung 
couple had agreed to separate. Lord Arleigh, although loving 
his wife most dearly, felt himself compelled to part from her. 


208 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


He preferred that his ancient and noble race should become ex- 
tinct rather than that it should be tarnished bj an alliance with 
the offspring of crime. Lady Arleigh agreed with her husband, 
and took up her abode at the Dower House, surrounded by 
every mark of esteem and honor. Then the story reverted to 
the Earl of Mountdean's lost child, and how, at length, to the 
intense delight of the husband and father, it was discovered 
that Lady Arleigh was no other than the long-lost daughter of 
Lord Mountdean. 

As the earl had said, the only obscure point in the narrative 
was how Lord Arleigh had been deceived. Evidently it was not 
his wife who had deceived him — who, therefore, could it have 
been? That the world was never to know. 

It was extraordinary how the story spread, and how great was 
the interest it excited. There was not a man or woman in all 
England who did not know it. 

When the earl deemed that full reparation had been made to 
his daughter, he agreed that she should go to Beechgrove. 

The country will never forget that home-coming. It was on 
a brilliant day toward the end of July. The whole country 
side was present to bid Lady Arleigh welcome — the tenants, 
servants, dependents, friends; children strewed flowers in her 
path, flags and banners waved in the sunlit air, there was a long 
procession with bands of music, there were evergreen arches 
with “Welcome Home” in monster letters. 

It was difiicult to tell who was cheered most heartily — the fair 
young wife whose beauty won all hearts, the noble husband, or 
the gallant earl whose pride and delight in his daughter were 
so great. Lord Arleigh said a few words in response to this 
splendid reception — and he was not ashamed of his own ina- 
bility to flnish what he had intended to say. 

There had never been such a home-coming within one’s mem- 
ory. The old house was filled with guests, all the elite of the 
county were there. There was a grand dinner, followed by a 
grand bail, and there was feasting for the tenantry — everything 
that could be thought of for the amusement of the vast crowd. 

On that evening, while the festivities were at their height, 
Loid Arleigh and his lovely young wife stole away from their 
guests and went up to the picture-gallery. The broad, silvery 
moonbeams fell on the spot where they had once endured such 
cruel anguish. The fire seemed to have paled in the rubies 
round the white neck of Titian’s gorgeous beauty. Lord Ar- 
leigh clasped his wife in his arms, and then he placed her at 
some little distance from himself, where the silvery moonlight 
fell on the fair, lovely profile, on the golden head, on the superb 
dress of rich white silk and on the gleaming diamonds. 

“My darling,” he said, “you are a thousand times lovelier 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


209 


than even Titian’s beauty here! Do you remember all we suf- 
I'ered in this sj^otV’ 

“ 1 can never forget it,” she replied. 

But YOU must forget it — it is for that I have brought you 
hither. This is the pleasantest nook in our house, and I want you 
to have pleasant associations with it. Where we suffered hear 
me say ” He paused. 

“What is it?” she asked, quietly. 

He threw his arms round her, and drew her to his breast. 

“Hear me say this, my darling — that I love you with all my 
heart; that I will so love you, truthfully and faithfully, until 
death ; and that I thank Heaven for the sweetest and best of all 
blessings, the gift of a good, pure, and loving wife,” 


CHAPTER XL. 

Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, was sitting in the superb 
drawing-room at Vere Court. It was some time since she had 
hdt town, but she had brought some poiTion of the gay world 
back with her. The court was filled with visitors, and nothing 
was thought of but brilliant festivities and amusement The 
duchess was queen of all gayety; the time that had passed had 
simply added to her beauty — she was now one of the handsom- 
est women in society. 

It was a warm day, the last day in June, and Vere Court had 
never seemed so brilliant. The lovely young duchess had with- 
drawn for a short time from her guests. Most of them had gone 
out riding or driving. There was to be a grand ball that even- 
ing, and her Grace of Hazlewood did not wish to fatigue herself 
before it came off. As for driving or riding in the hot sun sim- 
ply because the day was fine and the country fair, she did not 
believe in it. She had retired to her drawing-room; a soft couch 
had been placed near one of the open wundows, and the breeze 
that came in was heavy with perfume. On the stand by her 
side lay a richly- jew^eled fan, a bottle of sw^eet scent, a bouquet 
of heliotrope — her favorite flower — and one or two books which 
she had selected to read. She lay, with her dark, queenly head 
on the soft cushion of crimson velvet in an attitude that would 
have charmed a painter. But the duchess was not wasting the 
light of her dark eyes over a l>ook. She had closed them, as a 
flower closes its leaves in the heat of the sun. As she lay there, 
beautiful, languid, graceful, the picture she formed was a mar- 
velously rich study of color. So thought the duke, who, un- 
heard by her, had entered the room. 


210 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


Everything had prospered with his grace. He had always 
been extremely wealthy, but his wealth had been increased in a 
sudden and unexpecte*^d fashion. On one of his estates in the 
north a vein of coal had been discovered, which was one of the 
richest in England. The proceeds of it added wonderfully to 
his income, and promised to add still more. No luxury was 
wanting; the duchess had all that her heart, even in its wildest 
caprices, could desire. The duke loved her with as keen and 
passionate a love as ever. He had refused to go out this morn- 
ing, because she had not gone; and now he stood watching her 
with something like adoration in his face — the beautiful woman, 
in her flowing draperies of amber and white. He went up to 
her and touched her brow lightly with his lips. 

^‘Are you asleep, my darling?” he asked. 

“No,” she replied, opening her eyes. 

“I have something to read to you — something wonderful.” 

She roused herself. 

“ Your geese are generally swans, Vera What is the won- 
der?” 

“ Listen, Philippa;” and, as the duke scanned the newspaper 
in his hands, he sang the first few lines of his favorite song; 

“ ‘Queen Philippa sat in her bower alone.’ 

“Ah, here it is!” he broke off. “ I am sure you will say that 
this is wonderful. It explains all that I could not understand — 
and, for Arleigh’s sake, I am glad, though what you will say to 
it, I cannot think.” 

And, sitting down by her side, he read to her the newspaper 
account of the Arleigh romance. 

He read it without interruption, and the queenly woman lis- 
tening to him knew that her revenge had failed, and that, in- 
stead of punishing the man who had slighted her love, she had 
given him one of the sweetest, noblest and wealthiest girls in 
England. She knew that her vengeance had failed — that she 
nad simply crowned Lord Arleigh’s life with the love of a de- 
voted wife. 

When the duke looked up from his paper to see what was the 
effect of his news, he saw that the duchess had quietly fainted 
away, and lay with the pallor of death on her face. He believed 
that the heat was the cause, and never suspected his wife’s 
share in the story. 

She recovered after a few minutes. She did not know whether 
she was more glad or sorry at what she had heard. She had 
said once before of herself that she was not strong enough to 
be thoroughly wicked — and she was right. 

* * * * * * * * 

A year had elapsed, and Lord Arleigh and his wife were in 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


211 


town for the season, and were, as a matter of course, the objects 
of much curiosity. He was sitting one evening in the drawing- 
room of his town-house, when one of the servants told him that 
a lady wished to see him. He inquired her name and was told 
that she declined to give it. He ordered her to be shown into 
tiie room where he was, and presently there entered a tall state- 
ly lady, whose face was closely vailed; but the imperial figure, 
the stately grace were quite familiar to him. 

“Philippa!” he cried, in astonishment. 

Then she raised her vail, and once again he saw the grandly- 
beautiful face of the woman who had loved him with such pas- 
sionate love. 

“Philippa!” he repeated. 

“ Yes,” said the duchess, calmly. “And do you know why I 
am here?” 

“I cannot even guess,” he replied. 

“I am hereto implore your pardon,” she announced, with 
deep humility — “to tell you that neither by night nor by day, 
since I planned and carried out my revenge, have J known 
peace. I shall neither live nor die in peace unless you forgive 
me, Norman.” 

She bent her beautiful, haughty head before him — her eyes 
were full of tears. 

“You will forgive me, Norman?” she said in her low, rich 
voice. “ Remember that it was love for you which bereft me of 
my reason and drove me mad — love for you. You should par- 
don me.” 

Leaving her standing there. Lord Arleigh drew aside the 
velvet hangings and disappeared. In a few moments he return- 
ed, leading his wife by the hand. 

“ Philippa,” he said, gravely, “ tell my wife your errand; hear 
what she says. We will abide by her decision.” 

At first the duchess drew back with a haughty gesture. 

“ It was you I came to see,” she said to Lord Arleigh; and 
then the sweet face touched her and her better self pre- 
vailed. 

“Madaline,” she said, quietly^ “you have suffered much 
through me — will you pardon me?” 

The next moment Lady Arleigh’s arms were clasped round 
her neck, and the pure sweet lips touched her own. 

“ It was because you loved him,” she whispered, “and I for- 
give you.” 

* * * * * * * * 

The Duke of Hazlewood did not understand the quarrel be- 
tween his wife and Lord Arleigh, nor did he quite understand 
the reconciliation; still he is very pleased that they are recon- 


212 


WIFE IN NAME ONLY. 


ciled, for he likes Lord Arleigh better than any friend he has 
ever had. He fancies, too, that his beautiful wife always seems 
kinder to him when she has been spending some little time with 
Lady Arleigh. 

In the gallery at Verdun Royal there is a charming picture 
called “The Little Lovers. ” The figures in it are those of a 
dark-haired, handsome boy of three whose hand is filled with 
cherries, and a lovely little girl, with hair like sunshine and a 
face like a rosebud, who is accepting the rich ripe fruit. Those 
who understand smile as they look at this painting, for the dark- 
haired boy is the son and heir of the Duke of Hazlewood, and 
the fair faced girl is Lord x\rleigh’s daughter. 

The Earl of Mountdean and his wife, nee Lady Lily Gordon, 
once went to see that picture, and, as they stood smiling before 
it, he said: 

“ It may indicate what lies in the future. Let us hope it does; 
for the greatest gift of Heaven is the love of a good and pure- 
minded wife.** 


THE END. 


VICE VERSA 


CHAPTEE I. 

BliACK MONDAY. 

“In England, where boys go to boarding-schools, if the holidays were 
not long there wonld be no opportunity for cultivating the domestic 
affections .” — Letter of Lord CampbelVs, 1835. 

On a certain Monday evening late in January, 1881, Paul Bul- 
titude. Esq. (of Mincing Lane, Colonial Produce Merchant), 
was sitting alone in his dining-room at Westbourne Terrace 
after dinner. 

The room was a long and lofty one, furnished in the stern, 
uncompromising style of the mahogany age, now supplanted by 
the later fashions of decorations which, in their outset original 
and artistic, seem fairly on the way to become as meaningless 
and conventional. 

Here were no skillfully contrasted shades of gray or green, 
no dado, no distemper on the walls; the wood-work was grained 
and varnished after the mannar of the Philistines, the walls 
papered in dark crimson, with heavy curtains of the same color, 
and the sideboard, dinner-wagon, and row of stiff chairs were 
all carved in the same massive and expensive style of ugliness. 
The pictures were those familiar presentments of dirty rabbits, 
fat white horses, bloated goddesses, and misshapen boors, by 
masters who, if younger than they assume to be, must have 
been quite old enough to know better. 

Mr. Bultitude was a tall and portly person, of a somewhat 
pompous and overbearing demeanor; not much over fifty, but 
looking considerably older. He had a high shining head, from 
which the hair had mostly departed, what little still remained 
being of a grizzled auburn, prominent pale-blue eyes with 
heavy eyelids and fierce, bushy white-brown eyebrows. His gen- 
eral expression suggested a conviction of his own extreme im- 


16 


VICE VERSA. 


portance, but, in spite of this, his big under-lip drooped rather 
■weakly and his double chin slightly receded, giving a judge of 
character reason for suspecting that a certain obstinate positive- 
ness observable in Mr. Bultitude’s manner might possibly be 
due, less to the possession of an unusually strong will than to 
the circumstances that, by some fortunate chance, that will had 
hitherto never met with serious opposition. 

The room, with all its sesthetic shortcomings, was comfortable 
enough, and Mr. Bultitude’s attitude — he was lying back in a 
well-wadded leather arm-chair, with a glass of claret at his elbow 
and his feet stretched out toward the ruddy blaze of the fire — 
seemed at first sight to imply that happy after-dinner condition 
of perfect satisfaction with one’s self and things in general 
which is the natural outcome of a good cook, a good conscience, 
and a good digestion. 

At first sight; because his face did not confirm the impression 
— there was a latent uneasiness in it, an air of suppressed irri- 
tation, as if he expected and even dreaded to be disturbed at 
any moment, and yet was powerless to resent the intrusion as 
he would like to do. 

At the slightest sound in the hall outside he would half rise 
in his chair and glance at the door with a mixture of alarm and 
resignation, and as often as the steps died away and the door 
remained closed he would sink back and resettle himself with a 
shrug of evident relief. 

Habitual novel readers on reading thus far will, I am afraid, 
prepare themselves for the arrival of a faithful cashier with 
news of irretrievable ruin, or a mysterious and cynical stranger 
threatening disclosures of a disgraceful nature. 

But all such anticipations must at once be ruthlessly dispelled. 
Mr. Bultitude, although he was certainly a merchant, was a 
fairly successful one — in direct defiance of the law of fiction, 
where any connection with commerce seems to lead naturally to 
failure in one of the three volumes. 

He was an old gentleman, too, of irreproachable character 
and antecedents. 

No Damocles’ swcTrd of exposure was swinging over his bald 
but blameless head; he had no disasters to fear and no indiscre- 
tions to conceal. He had not been intended for melodrama, 
which, indeed, he would not have considered a respectable 
thing to be connected with. 

In fact, the secret of his uneasiness was so absurdly simple 
and commonplace that I am rather ashamed to have made even 
a temporary mystery of it. 

His son Dick was about to return to school that evening, and 
Mr. Bultitude was expecting every moment to be called upon to 


VICE VERSA. 17 

go through a parting scene with him; that was really all that 
was troubling him. 

This sounds very creditable to the tenderness of his feelings 
as a father — for there are some parents who bear such a bereave- 
ment at the close of the holidays with extraordinary fortitude, 
if they do not actually betray an unnatural satisfaction at the 
event. 

But it was not exactly from softness of heart that he was rest- 
less and impatient, nor did he dread any severe strain upon his 
emotions. He was not much given to sentiment, and was the 
author of more than one of those pathetically indignant letters 
to the papers, in which the British parent denounces the ex- 
penses of education and the unconscionable length and fre- 
quency of vacations. 

He was one of those nervous and fidgety persons who can not 
uuderstand their own children, looking on them as objection- 
able monsters whose next movements are uncertain — much as 
Frankenstein must have felt toward Ms monster. 

He hated to have a boy about the house, and positively 
writhed under the irrelevant and irrepressible questions, the 
unnecessary noises and boisterous high spirits, which nothing 
would subdue; his son’s society was to him simply an abomina- 
ble nuisance, and he pined and yearned for a release from it 
from the day the holidays began. 

He had been a widower for some years, and no doubt the 
loss of a mother’s loving tact, which can check the heedless 
merriment before it becomes intolerable, and interpret and 
soften the most peevish and unreasonable of rebukes, had done 
much to make the relations between parent and children more 
strained than they might otherwise have been. 

As it was, Dick’s fear of his father was just great enough to 
prevent any cordiality between them, and not sufficient to make 
him careful to avoid offense, and it is not surprising if, when 
the time came for him to return to his house of bondage at Dr. 
Grim stone’s, Crichton House, Eodwell Regis, he left his father 
anything but inconsolable. 

Just now, although Mr. Bultitude'was so near the hour of 
his deliverance, he still had a bad quarter of an hour before 
him, in which the last farewells must be said, and he found it 
impossible under these circumstances to compose himself for a 
quiet half hour’s nap, or to retire to the billiard-room for a cup 
of coffee and a mild cigar, as he would otherwise have done — 
since he was certain to be disturbed. 

And there was another thing which harrassed him, and that 
was a haunting dread lest at the last moment some unforeseen 
accident should prevent the boy’s departure after all. He had 
some grounds for this, for only a week before a sudden and un- 


18 


VICE VERSA. 


precedented snow-storm had dashed his hopes, on the eve of 
their fulfillment, by forcing the doctor to postpone the day on 
which the school was to reassemble, and now Paul sat on bram- 
bles until he had seen the house definitely rid of his son’s 
presence. 

All this time, while the father was fretting and fuming in his 
arm-chair, the son, the unlucky cause of all this discomfort, had 
been standing on the mat outside the door, trying to screw up 
enough courage to go in as if nothing was the matter with him. 

He was not looking particularly boisterous just then. On the 
contrary, his face was pale, and his eyes rather redder than he 
would quite care for them to be seen by any of the “fellows’^ 
at Crichton House. All the life and spirit had gone out of him 
for the time; he had a troublesome dryness in his throat, and a 
general sensation of chill-heaviness, which he himself would 
have described — expressively enough, if not with academical 
elegance — as “feeling beastly.” 

The stoutest hearted boy, returning to the most perfect of 
schools, cannot always escape something of this at that dark 
hour when the sands of the holidays have run out to their last 
golden grain, when the boxes are standing corded and labeled 
in the passage, and some one is going to fetch the fatal cab. 

Dick had just gone the round of the house, bidding dreary 
farewells to all the ^rvants; an unpleasant ordeal which he 
would gladly have dispensed with, if possible, and which did 
not serve to raise his spirits. 

Up-stairs, in the bright nursery, he had found his old nurse 
sitting sewing by the high wire fender. She was a stern, hard- 
featured old lady, who had systematically slapped him through 
infancy into boyhood, and he had had some stormy passages 
with her during the past few weeks; but she softened now in 
the most unexpected manner as she said good-by, and told him 
he was a “pleasant, good-hearted young gentleman, after all, 
though that aggravating and contrairy sometimes.” And tlien 
she predicted, with some of the rashness attaching to irre- 
sponsibility, that he would be “the best boy this next term as 
ever was, and work hard at all his lessons, and bring home a 
prize but all this unusual gentleness only made the interview 
more difficult to come out of with any credit for self-control. 

Then down-stairs, the cook had come up in her evening brown 
print and clean collar, from her warm, spice-scented kitchen to 
remark cheerily that “Lor’ bless his heart, what with all these 
telegrafts and things, time flew so fast nowadays that they’d be 
having him back again before they all knew where they were!” 

And this had a certain spurious consolation about it, until 
one saw that, after all, it put the case entirely from her own 
standpoint. 


VICE VERSA, 


19 


After this Dick had parted from his elder sister Barbara and 
his young brother Boly, and had arrived \yhere we found him 
first, at the mat outside the dining-room door, where he still 
lingered, shivering, in the cold, foggy hall. 

Somehow he could not bring himself to take the next step at 
once; he knew pretty well what his father’s feelings would be, 
and a parting is a very unpleasant ceremony to one who feels 
that the regret is all on his own side. 

But it was no use putting it off any longer; he resolved at 
last to go in and get it over, and opened the door accordingly. 
How warm and comfortable the room looked — more comfortable 
than it ever seemed to him before, even on the first day of the 
holidays ! 

And his father would be sitting there in a quarter of an hour’s 
time, just as he was now, while he himself would be lumbering 
along to the station through the dismal, raw fog! 

How unspeakably delightful it must be, thought Dick, en- 
viously, to be grown up and never worried by the thoughts of 
school and lesson-books; to be able to look forward to returning 
to the same comfortable house, and living the same easy life, 
day after day, week after week, with no fear of a swiftly advanc- 
ing Black Monday. 

Gloomy fiioralists might have informed him that we cannot 
escaj^e school by simply growing up, and that, even for those 
who contrive this and make a long holiday of their lives, there 
comes a time when the days are grudgingly counted to a blacker 
Monday than ever makes a schoolboy’s heart quake within him. 

But then Dick would never have believed them, and the 
moralists would only have wasted much excellent common sense 
upon him. 

Paul Bultitude’s face cleared as he saw his son come in. 
“There you are, eh!” he said, with evident satisfaction, as he 
turned in his chair, intending to cut tlie scene as short as possi- 
ble. “ So you’re off at last? Well, holidays can’t last forever — 
by a merciful decree of Providence, they don’t last quite for- 
ever! There, good-by, good-by, be a good boy this term, no 
more scrapes, mind. And now you’d better run away, and put 
on your coat — you’re keeping the cab waiting all this time.” 

“No, I’m not,” said Dick, “ Boaler hasn’t gone to fetch one 
yet.” 

“Not gone to fetch a cab yet!” cried Paul, with evident 
alarm, “why, God bless my soul, what’s the man thinking 
about? You’ll lose your train! I know you’ll lose the train, 
and there will be another day lost, after the extra week gon6 
already through that snow! I must see to this myself. Bing 
the bell, tell Boaler to start this instant — 1 insist on his fetching 
a cab this instant!” 


20 


VICE VERSA. 


“Well, it’s not my fault, you kuow,” grumbled Dick, not con- 
sidering so much anxiety at all flattering; “ but Boaler has gone 
now. I just heard the gate clang.” 

“Ah!” said his father, with more composure, “and now,” he 
suggested, “ you’d better shake hands, and then go up and say 
good-by to your sister — you’ve no time to spare.” 

“I’ve said good-by to them,” said Dick. “ Mayn’t I stay here 
till — till Boaler comes?” 

This request was due less to filial affection than a faint desire 
for dessert, which even his feelings could not altogether stifle. 
Mr. Bultitude granted it with a very bad grace. 

“I suppose you can if you want to,” he said, impatiently; 
“ only do one thing or the other — stay outside, or shut the door 
and come in, and sit down quietly. I cannot sit in a thorough 
draught!” 

Dick obeyed, and applied himself to the. dessert with rather 
an injured expression, 

Paul felt a greater sense of constraint and worry than ever; the 
interview, as he had feared, seemed likely to last some time, and 
he felt that he ought to improve the occasion in some way, or, 
at all events, make some observation. But, for all that, he had 
not the remotest idea what to say to this red-haired, solemn boy, 
who sat staring gloomily at him in the intervals of filling his 
mouth. The situation grew more embarrassing every moment. 

At last, as he felt himself likely to have more to say in reproof 
than on any other subject, he began with that. 

“There’s one thing I want to talk to you about before you 
go,” he began, “and that's this. 1 had a most unsatisfactory 
report of you this last term; don’t let me have that again. Dr. 
Grimstone tells me — ah, I have his letter here — yes, he says (and 
just attend, instead of making yourself ill with preserved ginger) 
— he says: ‘ Your son has great natural capacity, and excellent 
abilities; but I regret to say that, instead of applying himself as 
he might do, he misuses his advantages, and succeeds in setting 
a mischievous example to — if not actually misleading — his com- 
panions.’ That’s a pleasant account for a father to read! Here 
am I, sending you to an expensive school, furnishing you with 
great natural capacity and excellent abilities, and — and — every 
other school requisite, and all you do is to misuse them! It’s 
disgraceful! And misleading your companions, too! Why, at 
your age, they ought to mislead you — No, I don’t mean that — 
but what I may tell you is, that I’ve written a very strong letter 
to Dr. Grimstone, saying what pain it gave me to hear you mis- 
behaved yourself; and telling him, if he ever caught you setting 
an example of any sort, mind that, any sort, in the future — he 
was to, ah, to remember some of Solomon’s very sensible re- 


VICE VERSA. 


21 


marks on tlie subject. So I should strongly advise you to take 
care what you’re about in future, for your own sake!” 

This was not a very encouraging address, perhaps, but it did 
not seem to distress Dick to any extent; he had heard very much 
the same sort of thing several times before, and had been fully 
prepared for it then. 

He had been seeking distraction in almonds and raisins, but 
now they only choked instead of consoling him, and he gave 
them up and sat brooding silently over his hard lot instead, 
with a dull, blank dejection which those only who have gone 
through the same thing in their boyhood will understand. To 
others, whose school life has been one uncheckered course of 
excitement and success, it will bo incomprehensible enough — 
and so much the better for them. 

He sat listening to the grim sphinx-clock on the black marble 
chimney-piece, as it remorselessly ticked away his last few mo- 
ments of home life, and he ingeniously set himself to crown his 
sorrow by reviving recollections of happier days. 

In one of the corners of the chimney -glass there was still a 
sprig of withered laurel left forgotten, and his eye fell on it now 
with a grim satisfaction. He made his thoughts travel back to 
that delightful afternoon on Christmas Eve, when they had all 
come home riotous through the brilliant streets, laden with pur- 
chases from the Baker Street Bazaar, and then had decorated 
the rooms with such free and careless gayety. 

And the Christmas dinner, too! He had sat just where ho 
was sitting now, with, ah! such a difference in every other re- 
spect — the time had not come then when the thought of “only 
so many more weeks and days left ” had begun to intrude its 
grizzly shape, like the skull at an ancient feast. 

And yet he could distinctly recollect now, and with bitter re- 
morse, that he had not enjoyed himself then as much as ho 
ought to have done; he even remembered an impious opinion of 
his that the proceedings were “slow.” Slow! with plenty to 
eat, and three (four, if he had only known it) more weeks of 
holiday before him ; with Boxing Day, and the brisk, exhilarat- 
ing drive to the Crystal Palace immediately following, with all 
the rest of a season of license and varied joys to come, which ho 
could hardly trust himself to look back upon now! He must 
have been mad to think such a thing. 

Overhead, his sister Barbara was playing softly one of 
the airs from “The Pirates” (it was Frederic’s appeal to the 
Major-General’s daughters), and the music, freed from the serio- 
comic situation whic’n it illustrates, had a tenderness and pathos 
of its own which went to Dick’s heart and intensified his melan- 
choly ! 

He had gone (in secret, for Mr. Bultitude disapproved of such 


22 


VICE VERSA. 


dissipations) to hear the opera in the holida;5rg, and now the 
piano conjured the whole scene up for him again — there would 
be no more theater-going for him for a very long time I 

By this time Mr. Bultitude began to feel the silence becoming 
once* more oppressive, and roused himself with a yawn. 

“Heigho!” he said, “ Boaler’s an uncommonly long time 
fetching that cab!” 

Dick felt more injured than ever, and showed it by drawing 
what he intended for a moving sigh. 

Unfortunately it was misunderstood. 

“I do wish, sir,” said Paul, testily, “you would try to break 
yourself of that habit of breathing hard. The society of a gram- 
pus (for it’s no less) delights no one and offends many — includ- 
ing me — and for heaven’s sake, Dick, don’t kick the leg of the 
taHe in that way; you know it simply maddens me. What do 
you do it for? Why can’t you learn to sit at table like a gentle- 
man?” 

Dick mumbled some apology, and then, having found his 
tongue and remembered his necessities, said, with a nervous 
catch of his voice: 

“ Oh, I say, papa, will you — can you let me have some pocket- 
money, please, to go back with?” 

Paul looked as if his son had petitioned for a latch-key. 

“Pocket-money!” he repeated, “why, you can’t want money. 
Didn’t your grandmother give you a sovereign as a Christmas- 
box? And I gave you ten shillings myself!” 

“I do want it, though,” said Dick; “ that’s all spent. And 
you know you always have given me money to take back.” 

“If I do give you some, youll only go and spend it,” grum- 
bled Mr. Bultitude, as if he considered money an object of art. 

“ I sha’n’t spend it all at once, and I shall want some to put 
in the plate on Sundays. We always have to put in the plate 
when it’s a collection. And there’s the cab to pay.” 

“Boaler has orders to pay your cab — as you know well 
enough,” said Paul, “but I suppose you must have some, 
though you cost me enough. Heaven knows, without this addi- 
tional expense.” 

And at this he brought up a fistful of loose silver and gold 
from one of his trouser-pockets, and sj)read it deliberately out 
on the table in front of him in shining rows. 

Dick’s eyes sparkled at the sight of so much wealth; for a 
moment or two he almost forgot the pangs of approaching exile 
in the thought of the dignity and credit which a single one of 
those bright new sovereigns would procure for liim. 

It would insure him surreptitious luxuries and open friend- 
ships as long as it lasted. Even Tipping, the head boy of the 
school, who had gone into tails, brought back no more, and 


VICE VERSA. 


23 


besides, the money would bring him handsomely out of certain 
pecuniary difdculties to which an unexpected act of parental 
authority had exposed him; he could easily dispose of all claims 
with such a sum at command, and then his father could so easily 
spare it out of so much! 

Meanwhile Mr. Bultitude, with great care and precision, se- 
lected from the coins before him a florin, two shillings, and two 
sixpences, which he pushed across to his son, who looked at 
them with a disappointment he did not care to conceal. 

“ An uncommonly liberal allowance for a young fellow like 
you,” Paul observed. “ Don’t buy any foolishness with it, and 
if, toward the end of the term, you want a little more, and 
write an intelligible letter asking for it, and I think proper to 
let you have it — why, you’ll get it, you know.” 

Dick had not courage to ask for more, much as he longed to 
do so, so he put the money in his purse with very qualified 
expressions of gratitude. 

In his purse he seemed to find something which had escaped 
his memory, for he took out a small parcel and unfolded it with 
some hesitation. 

“I nearly forgot,” he said, speaking with more animation 
than he had yet done, “I didn’t like to take it without asking 
you, but is this any use? May I have it?” 

“Eh?” said Paul, sharply, “what’s that? Something else — 
what is it you want now?” 

“It’s only that stone Uncle Duke brought mamma from In- 
dia; the thing, he said, thej called a ‘Pagoda stone,’ or some- 
thing, out there.” 

“Pagoda stone? The boy means Garuda stone. I should 
like to know how you got hold of that? you’ve been meddling 
in my drawers, now, a thing I will not put up with, as I’ve told 
you over and over again.” 

“No, I haven’t then,” said Dick; “I found it in a tray in the 
drawing-room, and Barbara said, perhaps, if I asked you, you 
might let me have it, as she didn’t think it was any use to you.” 

‘Then Barbara had no right to say anything of the sort,” 
snapped Paul. 

“But may I have it? I may — mayn’t I?” persisted Dick. 

“ Have it? certainly not. What could you possibly want with 
a thing like that? It’s ridiculous. Give it to me.” 

Dick handed it over reluctantly enough. It was not much to 
look at, quite an insignificant-looking little square tal)iet of 
grayish-green stone, pierced at one angle, and having on two of 
its faces faint traces of mysterious symbols, which time had 
made very difiicult to distinguish. 

It looked harmless enough as Mr. Bultitude took it in his 
hand; there was no kindly hand to hold him back, no warning 


24 


VICE VERSA. 


voice to hint that there might possibly be sleeping within that 
small marble block the pent-up energy of long-forgotten East- 
ern necromancy, just as ready as ever to awake into action at 
the first words which had power to evoke it. 

There was no one; but, even if there had been such a person, 
Paul was a sober, prosaic individual, who would probably have 
treated the warning as a piece of ridiculous superstition. 

As it was, no man could have put himself in a position of ex- 
treme peril with a more perfect unconsciousness of his danger. 


CHAPTER II. 

A GBAND TKANSFORMATION SCENE. 

“ Magnaque numinibus vota exaudita malignis.” 

Mr. Bultitude put on his glasses to examine the stone more 
carefully, for it was some time since he had last seen or thought 
about it. Then he looked up, and said once more; 

“ What use would a thing like this be to you?’’ 

Dick would have considered it a very valuable prize, indeed; 
he could have exhibited it to admiring friends — during lessons, 
of course, when it would prove a most agreeable distraction — he 
could have played with and fingered it incessantly; invented as- 
tonishing legends of its powers and virtues; and, at last, when 
he had grown tired of it, have bartered it for any more desira- 
ble article that might take his fancy. All these advantages were 
present to his mind in a vague, shifting form, but he could not 
find either courage or words to explain them. 

Consequently he only said, awkwardly: 

“ Oh, I don’t know; I should like it.” 

“'Well, any way,” said Paul, “you certainly won’t have it. 
It’s worth keeping, whatever it is, as the only thing your Uncle 
Marmaduke was ever known to give to anybody.” 

Marmaduke Paradine, Mr. B altitude’s brother-in-law, was not 
a connection of which he had much reason to feel particularly 
proud. One of those persons endowed with what are known 
as “ insinuating manners and address,” he had, after some futile 
attempts to enter the army, been sent out to Bombay as agent 
for a Manchester firm, and in that capacity liad contrived to be 
mixed up in some more than shady transactions with rival ex- 


VICE VERSA. 


25 


porters and native dealers np the country, which led to an un- 
ceremonious dismissal by his employers. 

He had brought home the stone from India as a propitiatory 
token of remembrance, more portable and less exj)ensive than 
the lacquered cabinets, brasses, stuffs, and carved work which 
are expected from friends at such a distance, and he had been 
received with pardon and started once more, until certain other 
proceedings of his, shadier still, had obliged Paul to forbid him 
the house at Westbourne Terrace. 

Since then little had been heard of him, and the reports which 
reached Mr. Bultitude of his disreputable relative’s connection 
with the promotion of a series of companies of the kind affected 
by the widow and curate, and exposed in money articles and 
law courts, gave him no desire to renew his acquaintance. 

“Isn’t it a talisman, though?” said Dick, rather unfortunately 
for any hopes he might have of persuading his father to entrust 
him with the coveted treasure. 

“I’m sure I can’t tell you,” yawned Paul; “how do you 
mean?” 

“ I don’t know, only Uncle Duke once -said something about 
it. Barbara heard him tell mamma. I say perhaps it’s like the 
one in Scott, and cures people of things, though I don’t think 
it’s that sort of talisman either, because I tried it once on my 
chilblains, and it wasn’t a bit of good. If you would only let 
me have it, perhaps I might find out, you know.” 

“ You might,” said his father, dryly, apparently not much in- 
fiuenced by this inducement, “ but you won’t have the chance. 
If it has a secret, I will find it out for myself (he little knew 
how literally he was to be taken at his word), and, by the way, 
there’s your cab — at last!’’ 

There was a sound of wheels outside, and, as Dick heard 
them, he grew desperate in his extremity; a wish he had long 
secretly cherished unspoken, without ever hoping for courage 
to give it words, rose to his lips now; he got up and moved 
timidly toward his father. 

“Papa,” he said, “there’s something I want to say to you so 
much before I go. Do let me ask you now.” 

“Well, what is it?” said Paul. “Make haste, you haven’t 
much time.” 

“ It’s this. I want you to — to let me leave Grimstone’s at the 
end of the term.” 

Paul stared at him, angry and incredulous. “Let you leave 
Dr. Grimstone’s (oblige me by giving him his full title when 
you speak of him),” he said slowly. “Why, what do you 
mean? It’s an excellent school — never saw a better expressed 
prospectus in my life. And my old friend Bangle, Sir Benjamin 
Bangle, who’s a member of the School Board, and ought to 


26 


VICE VERSA. 


know something about schools, strongly recommended it — would 
have sent his own son there, if he hadn’t entered him at Eton. 
And when I pay for most of the extras for you, too. Dancing, 
by Gad, and meat for breakfast. I’m sure 1 don’t know what 
you would have!” 

“I’d like to go to Marlborough, or Harrow, or somewhere,” 
whimpered Dick; “ Jolland’s going to Harrow at Easter. (Jol- 
land’s one of the fellows at Grimstone’s — Dr. Grimstone’s, I 
mean.) And what does old Bangle know about it? He hasn’t 
got to go there himself! And — and Grimstone’s jolly enough to 
fellows he likes, but he doesn’t like me — he’s always sitting on 
me for something — and I hate some of the fellows there, and 
altogether it’s beastly. Do let me leave! If you don’t want me 
to go to a public school, I — I could stop at home and have a 
private tutor — like Joe Twitterly!” 

“It’s all ridiculous nonsense, I tell you,” said Paul, angrily, 
“ridiculous nonsense! And, once for all. I’ll put a stop to it. 
I don’t approve of public schools for boys like you, and, what’s 
more, I can’t afford it. As for private tutors, that’s absurd! So 
you will just make up your mind to stay at Crichton House as 
long as I think proper to keep you there, and there’s an end of 
that!” 

At this final blow to all his hopes, Dick began to sob in a 
subdued, hopeless kind of a way, which was more than his 
father could bear. To do Paul justice, he had not meant to be 
quite so harsh when the boy was about to set out for school, 
and, a little ashamed of his irritation, he sought to justify his 
decision. 

He chose to do this by delivering a short homily on the advan- 
tages of school, by which he might lead Dick to look on the 
matter in the calm light of reason and common sense, and com- 
monplaces on the subject began to rise to the surface of his 
mind, from the rather muddy depths to which they had long 
since sunk. 

He began to give Dick the benefit of all this stagnant wisdom, 
with a feeling of surprise, as he went on, at his own powerful 
and original way of putting things. 

“Now, you know, it’s no use to cry like that,” he began. 
“It’s — ah, the usual thing for boys at school, I’m quite aware, 
to go about fancying they’re very ill-used, and miserable, and 
all the rest of it, just as if people in my position had their sons 
educated out of spite! It’s one of those petty troubles all boys 
have to go through. And you mark my words, my boy, when 
they go out into the world, and have real trials to put up with, 
and grow old men, like me, why, they see what fools they’ve 
been, Dick; they see what fools they’ve been. All the — hum, 
the innocent games and delights of boyhood, and that sort of 


VICE VERSA. 


27 


thing, you know — come back to them — and then they look back 
to those hours passed at school as the happiest, ay, the very 
happiest time of their life!” 

“Well,” said Dick, “then I hope it won’t be the happiest 
time in mine, that’s all! And you may have been happy at the 
school you went to, perhaps, but I don’t believe you would 
veiw much care about being a boy again like me, and going back 
to Grimstone’s; you know you wouldn’t!” 

This put Paul on his mettle; he had warmed well to his sub- 
ject, and could not let this open challenge pass unnoticed — it 
gave him such an opening for a cheap and easy effect. 

He sank back into his chair, and put the tips of his fingers 
together, smiling with a tolerant superiority. 

“ Perhaps you will believe me,” he said, impressively, “ when 
I tell you, old as I am and much as you envy me, I only wish, 
at tliis very moment, I could be a boy again, like you. Going 
back to school wouldn’t make me unhappy, I can tell you.” 

It is so fatally easy to say more than we mean in the desire to 
make as strong an impression as possible. Well for most .of 
us that — more fortunate than Mr. Bultitude — we can generally 
do so without fear of being taken too strictly at our word. 

As he spoke these unlucky words, he felt a slight shiver, fol- 
lowed by a curious shrinking sensation all over him. It was 
odd, too, but the arm-chair in which he sat seemed to have 
grown so much bigger all at once. He felt a passing surprise, 
but concluded it must be fancy, and went on as comfortably as 
before. 

“ I should like it, my boy, but what’s the good of wishing? 
I only mention it to prove that I was not speaking at random. 
I’m an old man and you’re a young boy, and, that being so, 
why, of course What the deuce are you giggling about?” 

For Dick, after some seconds of half-frightened, open- 
mouthed staring, had suddenly burst into a violent fit of al- 
most hysterical giggling, which he seemed trying vainly to sup- 
press. 

This naturally annoyed Mr. Bultitude, and he went on with 
immense dignity: 

“I, ah, I’m not aware that I’ve been saying anything particu- 
larly ridiculous. You seem to be amused?” 

“ Don’t!” gasped Dick. “ It — it isn’t anything you’re saying 
— it’s, it’s — oh, can’t you feel any difference?” 

“The sooner you go back to school the better!” said Paul, an- 
grily. “I wash my hands of you. When I do take the trouble 
to give you any advice, it’s received with ridicule. You always 
were an ill-mannered little cub. I’ve had quite enough of this. 
Leave the room, sir!” 

The wheels must have belonged to some other cab, for none 


28 


YlCi: VERSA. 


had stopped at the pavement as yet; but Mr. Bultitude was 
justly indignant and could stand the interview no longer. Dick, 
however, made no attempt to move; he remained there, choking 
and shaking with laughter, while his father sat stiffly on his 
chair, trying to ignore his son’s unmannerly conduct, but only 
partially succeeding. 

No one can calmly endure watching other people laughing at 
him like idiots, while he is left perfectly incapable of guessing 
what he has said or done to amuse them. Even when this is 
known, it requires a peculiarly keen sense of humor to see the 
point of a joke against one’s self. 

At last his patience gave out, and he said, coldly: 

“Now, perhaps, if you are quite yourself again, you will be 
good enough to let me know what the joke is?” 

Dick, looking flushed and half ashamed, tried again and again 
to speak, but each time the attempt was too much for him. 
After a time he did succeed, but his voice was hoarse and shaken 
with laughter as he spoke. 

“Haven’t you found it out yet? Go and look at yourself in 
the glass — it will make you roar!” 

There was the usual narrow sheet of plate glass at the back of 
the sideboard, and to this Mr. Bultitude walked, almost under 
protest, and with a cold dignity. It occurred to him that he 
might have a smudge on his face or something wrong with his 
collar and tie — something to account to some extent for his son’s 
frivolous and insulting behavior. No suspicion of the terrible 
truth crossed his mind as yet. 

Meanwhile Dick was looking on eagerly with a chuckle of an- 
ticipation, as one who watches the dawning appreciation of an 
excellent joke. 

But no sooner had Paul met the reflection in the glass than 
he started back in incredulous horror — then returned, and 
stared again and again. 

Surely, surely, this could not be he! 

He had expected to see his own familiar portly bow-windowed 
presence there — but somehow, look as he would, the mirror in- 
sisted upon reflecting the figure of his son Dick. Could he pos- 
sibly have become invisible and have lost the power of casting a 
reflection — or how was it that Dick, and only Dick, was to be 
seen there? 

How was it, too, when he looked round, there was the boy 
still sitting there. It could not be Dick, evidently, that he saw 
in the glass. Besides, the reflection opposite him moved when 
he moved, returned when he returned, copied his every ges- 
ture! 

He turned round upon his son with angry and yet hopeful 
suspicion. 


VICE VERSA. 


29 


“You, you’ve been playing some of your infernal tricks with 
this mirror, sir,” he cried, fiercely. “What have you done 
to it?” 

“Done! how could I do anything to it? As if you didn’t 
know that!” 

“Then,” stammered Paul, determined to know the worst, 
“then do you, do you mean to tell me you can see any — altera- 
tion in me? Tell me the truth now!” 

“I should just think I could!” said Dick, emphatically. 
“It’s very queer, but just look here,” and he came up to the 
sideboard and placed himself by the side of his horrified father. 
“Why,” he said, with another giggle, “we’re — he-he — as like 
as two peas!” 

They were indeed; the glass reflected now two small boys, 
each with chubby cheeks and fair hair, both dressed, too, ex- 
actly alike, in Eton jackets and broad white collars; the only 
difference to be seen between them was that, while one face wore 
an expression of intense glee and satisfaction, the other — the 
one which Mr. Bultitude was beginning to fear must belong to 
him — was lengthened and drawn with dismay and bewilder- 
ment. 

“Dick,” said Paul, faintly, “what is all this? Who has been 
taking these liberties with me?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” protested Dick. “It wasn’t me. 
I believe you did it all yourself.” 

“Did it all myself!” repeated Paul, indignantly. “Is it 
likely I should? It’s some trickery, I tell you, some villainous 
plot. The worst of it is,” he added, plaintively, “I don’t un- 
derstand who I’m supposed to be now. Dick, who am I?” 

“You can’t be me,” said Dick, authoritatively, “ because here 
I am, you know. And you’re not yourself, that’s very plain. 
You must be somebody, I suppose,” he added, dubiously. 

“ Of course I am. What do you mean?” said Paul, angrily. 
“Never mind who I am. I feel just the same as I always did. 
Tell me when you first began to notice any change. Could you 
see it coming on at all, eh?” 

“ It was all at once, just as you were talking about school and 

all that. You said you only wished Why, of course; look 

here, it must be the stone that did it!” 

“ Stone! what stone?” said Paul. “ I don’t know what you’re 
talking about.’' 

“Yes, you do— the Garud^ stone! You’ve got it in your 
hand still. Don’t you see? It’s a real talisman, after all. How 
jolly!” 

“I didn’t do anything to set it off; and besides, oh, it’s per- 
fectly absurd! How can there be such things as talismans now- 
adays, eh? Tell me that.” 


30 


VICE VERSA. 


‘‘Well, something’s happened to yon, hasn’t it? And it 
must have been done somehow,” argued Dick. 

“I was holding the confounded thing, certainly,” said Paul; 
“ here it is. But what could I have said to start it? What has 
it done this to me for?” 

“I know,” cried Dick. “Don’t you remember? You said 
you wished you were a boy again, like me. So you are, you 
see, exactly like me! What a lark it is, isn’t it? But, I say, 
you can’t go up to business like that, you know, can you? I 
tell you what, you’d better come to Grimstone’s with me now, 
and see how you like it. I shouldn’t mind so much if you 
came, too. Grimstone’s face would be splendid when he saw 
two of us. Do come!” 

“ That’s ridiculous nonsense you’re talking,” said Paul, “ and 
you know it. What should I do at school at my age? I tell 
you I’m the same as ever inside, though I may have shrunk in- 
to a miserable little rascally boy to look at. And it’s simply an 
abominable nuisance, Dick, that’s what it is! Why on earth 
couldn’t you let the stone alone? Just see what mischief you’ve 
done by meddling no \^ — put me to all this inconvenience!” 

“You shouldn’t have wished,” said Dick. 

“Wished!” echoed Mr. Bultitude. “Why, to be sure,” he 
said, with a gleam of returning hopefulness; “of course, I 
never thought of that. The thing’s a wishing-stone; it must 
be! You have to hold it, I suppose, and then say what you wish 
aloud, and there you are. If that’s the case, I can soon put it 
all right by simply wishing myself back again. I — 1 shall 
have a good laugh at all this by and by — I know I shall!” 

He took the stone, and got into a corner by himself, where 
he began repeating the words: “ I wish I was back again,” “ I 
wish I was the man I was five minutes ago,” “I wish all this 
had not happened,” and so on, until he was exhausted and red 
in the face. He tried with the stone held in his left hand, as 
well as his right, sitting and standing, all the various condi- 
tions he could think of, but absolutely nothing came of it; he 
was just as exasperatingly boyish and youthful as ever at the 
end of it. 

“ I don’t like this,” he said at last, giving it up with a rather 
crestfallen air. “It seems to me that this diabolical invention 
has got out of order somehow; I can’t make it work any more!” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Dick, who had shown throughout the 
most unsympathetic cheerfulness, “perhaps it’s one of those 
talismans that only give you one wish, and you’ve had it, you 
know?” 

“ Then it’s all over!” groaned Paul. “What the deuce am I 
to do? What shall I do? Suggest something, for Heaven’s 
sake; don’t stand cackling there in that unfeeling manner. 


VICE VERSA. 


31 


Can’t you see what a terrible mess I’ve got into? Suppose — 
only suppose your sister or one of the servants were to come in, 
and see me like this!” 

This suggestion simply enchanted Dick. 

“Let’s have them all up,” he laughed; “it would be such 
fun! How they will laugh when we tell them!” And he 
rushed to the bell. 

“Touch that bell if you dare!” screamed Paul. “I won’t 
be seen in this condition by anybody! What on earth could 
have induced that scoundrelly uncle of yours to bring such a 
horrible thing as this over I can’t imagine! I never heard of 
such a situation as this in my life. I can’t stay like this, you 
know — it’s not to be thought of! I — I wonder whether it would 
be any use to send over to Dr. Bustard and ask him to step in; 
he might give me something to bring me round. But then the 
whole neighborhood would hear about it! If I don’t see my 
way out of this soon, I shall go raving mad!” 

And he paced restlessly up and down the room with his brain 
on fire. 

All at once, as he became able to think more coherently, 
there occurred to him a chance, slender and desperate enough, 
but still a chance, of escaping even yet the consequences of his 
folly. 

He was forced to conclude that, however improbable and fan- 
tastic it might appear in this rationalistic age, there must be 
some hidden power in this Garuda stone which had put him in 
his present ve^ unpleasant position. It was plain, too, that the 
virtues of theTalisman refused to exert themselves any more at 
his bidding. 

But it did not follow that in another’s hands the spell would 
remain as powerless. At all events, it was an experiment well 
worth the trial, and he lost no time in explaining the notion to 
Dick, who, by the sparkle in his eyes and suppressed excitement 
in his manner, seemed to think there might be something in it. 

“ I may as well try,” he said. “ give it to me.” 

“Take it, my dear boy,” said Paul, with a parental air that 
sorely tried Dick’s recovered gravity, it contrasted so absurdly 
with his altered appearance. “Take it, and wish your poor 
old father himself again!” 

Dick took it, and held it thoughtfully for some moments, 
while Paul waited in nervous impatience. 

“Isn’t it any use?” he said, dolefully, at last, as nothing 
happened. 

“ I don’t know,” said Dick, calmly, “ I haven’t wished yet.” 

“Then do so at once,” said Paul, fussily, “do so at once. 
There’s no time to waste, every moment is of importance — ► 
your cab will be here directly. Although, although I’m al- 


82 


VICE VERSA. 


tered in this ridiculous way, I hope I still retain my authority 
as a father, and, as a father, by Gad, I expect you to obey 
me, sir!” 

“Oh, all right,” said Dick, indifferently; “you may keep 
the authority if you like.” 

“Then do what I tell you. Can’t you see how urgent it is 
that a scandal like this shouldn’t get about? I should be the 
laughing-stock of the city. Not a soul must ever guess that 
such a thing has happened. You must see that yourself.” 

“Yes,” said Dick, who all this time was sitting on a cor- 
ner of the table, swinging his legs, “I see that. It will be 
all right. I’m going to wish in a minute, and no one will 
guess there has been anything the matter.” 

“That’s a good boy!” said Paul, much relieved, “I know 
your heart is in the right place — only do make haste.” 

“I suppose,” Dick asked, “when you are yourself again, 
things would go on just as usual?” 

“I — I hope so.” 

“I mean you will go on sitting here, and I shall go off to 
Grimstone’s?” 

“Of course, of course,” said Paul; “don’t ask so many 
questions. I’m sure you quite understand what has to be 
done, so get on. We might be found like this any minute.” 

“ That settles it,” said Dick, “any fellow would do it after 
that.” 

“ Yes, yes, but you’re so slow about it!” 

“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Dick, “you mayn’t like it after 
all when I’ve done it.” 

“ Done what?” asked Mr. Bultitude, sharply, struck by some- 
thing sinister and peculiar in the boy’s manner. 

“ Well, I don’t mind telling you,” said Dick; “it’s fairer. 
You see, you wished to be a boy just like me, didn’t you?” 

“ I didn’t mean it,” protested Paul. 

“Ah, you couldn’t expect a stone to know that; at any rate, 
it made you into a boy just like me directly. Now, if I wish 
myself a man just like you were ten minutes ago, before you 
took the stone, that will put things all right again, won’t it?” 

“Is the boy mad?” cried Paul, horrified at this proposal. 
“Why, why, that would be worse than ever.” 

“I don’t see that,” objected Dick, stubbornly. “No one 
would know anything about it then.” 

“But, you little blockhead, can’t I make you understand? It 
wouldn’t do at all. We should both of us be wrong then — each 
with the other’s personal appearance.” 

“ Well,” said Dick, blanMy, “ I shouldn’t mind that.” 

“ But I should — I mind very much. I object strongly to such 
a — such a preposterous arrangement. And what’s more, I won’t 


VICE VERSA. 


33 


have it. Do you hear, I forbid you to think of any such thing. 
Give me back that stone. I can’t trust you with it after this.’* 

“I can’t help it,” said Dick, doggedly. “You’ve had your 
wish, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have mine. I mean to 
have it, too.” 

“ Why, you unnatural little rascal!” cried the justly-enraged 
father, “ do you mean to defy me? I tell you I will have that 
stone! Give it up this instant!” and he made a movement 
toward his son, as if he meant to recover the talisman by main 
force. 

But Dick was too quick for him. Slipping off the table with 
great agility, he planted himself firmly on the hearth-rug, with 
the hand that held the stone clenched behind his back, and the 
other raised in self-defense. 

“I’d much rather you wouldn’t make me hit you, you know,” 
he said, “ because, in spite of what’s happened, you’re still my 
father, I suppose. But, if you interfere with me before I’ve 
done with this stone, I’m afraid I shall have to punch your 
head.” 

Mr. Bultitude retreated a few steps apprehensively, feeling 
himself no match for hii^son, except in size and general appear- 
ance; and for some moments of really frightful intensity they 
stood panting on the hearth-rug, each cautiously watching the 
other, on his guard against stratagem and surprise. 

It was one of those painful domestic scenes which are fortu- 
nately rare between father and son. 

Overhead, the latest rollicking French polka was being rat- 
tled out, with a savage irony of which pianos, even by the best 
makers, can at times be capable. 

Suddenly Dick drew himself up. 

“Stand out of my way!” he cried, excitedly, “I am going to 
do it. I wish I was a man like you were just now!” 

And as he spoke, Mr. Bultitude had the bitterness of seeing 
his unscrupulous son swell out like the frog in the fable, till he 
stood there before him the exact duplicate of what Paul had so 
lately been! 

The transformed Dick began to skip and dance round the room 
in high glee, with as much agility as his increased bulk would 
allow. 

“It’s all right, you see,” he said. “The old stone’s as good 
as ever. You can’t say any one would ever know, to look at 
us.” 

And then he threw himself panting into a chair, and began to 
laugh excitedly at the success of his unprincipled manoeuvre. 

As for Paul, he was perfectly furious at having been so out- 
witted and overreached. It was a long time before he could 
command his voice sufficiently to say, savagely : 


34 


VICE VERSA. 


“.Well, you’ve had your way, and a pretty mess you’ve made 
of it. We’re both of us in false positions now. I hoj^e you’re 
satisfied, I’m sure. Do you think you’ll care about going back 
to Crichton House in that state?” 

“No,” said Dick, very decidedly; “I’m quite sure I 
shouldn’t.” 

“Weil, I can’t help it. You’ve brought it on yourself; and, 
provided the doctor sees no objection to take you back as you 
are and receive you as one of his pupils, I shall most certainly 
send you there.” 

Paul did not really mean this, he only meant to frighten him; 
for he still trusted that, by letting Boaler into the secret, the 
charm might be set in motion once more, and the difficulty com- 
fortably overcome. But his threat had a most unfortunate effect 
upon Dick; it hardened him to take a course he might other- 
wise have shrunk from. 

“Oh,” he said, “you’re going to do that? But doesn’t it 
strike you that things are rather altered with us now?” 

“ They are, to a certain extent, of course,” said Paul, 
“ through my folly and your wicked cunning; but a word or 
two of explanation from me ” 

“You’ll find it will take more explanation than you think,” 
said Dick; “but, of course, you can try, if you think it worth 
while, when you get to Grimstone’s.” 

“When I — I don’t understand. When I — what did you say?” 
gasped Paul. 

“ Why, you see,” exclaimed Dick, “ it would never have done 
for both of us to go back; the chaps would have humbugged us 
so, and, as I hate the place, and you seem so fond of being a boy 
and going back to school and that, I thought perhaps it would 
be best for you to go and see how you liked it!” 

“I never will! I’ll not stir from this room! I dare you to 
try to move me!” cried Paul. 

And just then there was the sound of wheels outside once 
more. They stopped before the house, the bell rang sharply — 
the long-expected cab had come at last. 

“You’ve no time to lose,” said Dick, “ get your coat on.” 

Mr. Bultitude tried to treat the affair as a joke. He laughed 
a ghastly little laugh. 

“ Ha! ha! you’ve fairly caught your poor old father this time; 
you’ve proved him in the wrong. I admit I said more than I 
exactly meant. But that’s enough. Don’t drive a good joke 
too far; shake hands, and let us see if we can’t find a way out of 
this!” 

But Dick only warmed his coat-tails at the fire as he said, 
with a very ungenerous reminiscence of his father’s manner: 

“You are going back to an excellent establishment, where 


VICE VERSA, 


35 


yoti will enjoy all the comforts of home — I can particularly rec- 
ommend the stickjaw; look out for it on Tiiesdays and Fridays. 
You will once more take part in the games and lessons of happy 
boyhood. (Did you ever play ‘ chevy ’ when you were a boy 
before? You’ll enjoy chevy.) And you will find your compan- 
ions easy enough to get on with, if you don’t go giving yourself 
airs; they won’t stand airs. Now good-by, my boy, and bless 
you!” 

Paul stood staring stupidly at this outrageous assumption; he 
could scarcely believe even yet that it was meant in cruel ear- 
nest, Before he could answer, the door opened and Boaier ap- 
peared. 

“Had a deal of trouble to find a keb, sir, on a night like 
this,” he said to the false Dick, “ but the luggage is all on top, 
and the man says there is plenty of time still.” 

“Good-by, then, my boy,” said Dick, with well-assumed ten- 
derness, but a rather dangerous light his eye. “Remember, I 
expect you to work. ” 

Paul turned indignantly from him to the butler; he, at least, 
would stand by him. Boaier would not see a master who had 
always been fair, if not indulgent, to him driven from his home 
in tlib cold-blooded manner! 

He made two or three attempts to speak, for his brain whirled 
so with scathing, burning things to say. He would expose the 
fraud then and there, and defy the impudent usurper; he would 
warn every one against this spurious, pinchbeck imitation of 
himself. The whole household* .should be summoned and called 
upon to judge between the two! 

No doubt, if he liad had enough self-command to do all this 
effectually, while Dick had as yet not had the time to thoroughly 
adapt himself to his altered circumstances, he might have 
turned the situation at the outset, and spared himself some very 
painful experiences. 

But it is very often precisely those words which are the most 
vitally important to be said that refuse to pass our lips on a sud- 
den emergency. We feel all the necessity of saying something 
at once, but the necessary words unaccountably desert us at the 
critical nioment. 

Mr. Bultitude felt himself in this unfortunate position. He 
made more wild efforts to explain, but the sense of his danger 
only petrified his mind instead of stimulating it. Then he was 
spared further conflict. A dark mist rose before his eyes; the 
walls of the room receded into infinite space; and, with a loud 
singing in his ears, he fell, and seemed to be sinking down, down, 
througli the earth to the very crust of the antipodes. Then the 
blackness closed over him — and he knew no more. 


36 


VICE VERSA. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN THE TOILS. 

“ I beseech you let his lack Ot years be no impediment to let him 
lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so 
old a head .” — Merchant of Venice^ Act iv. 

When Mr. Bultitude recovered his senses, which was not for 
a considerable time, he found that he was being jolted along 
through a broad, well-lit thoroughfare, in a musty four-wheeler. 

His head was by no means clear yet, and for some minutes he 
hardly could be said to think at all; he merely lay back dreamily 
listening to the hard, grinding jar of the cab windows vibrating 
in their grooves. 

His first distinct sensation was a vague wonder what Barbara 
might be intending to give him for dinner, for, oddly enough, 
he felt far from hungry, and was conscious that his palate would 
require the adroitest witching. 

With the thought of dinner his dining-room was almost insep 
arably associated, and then, with an instant rush of recollection, 
the whole scene there with the Garuda stone surged into his 
brain. He shuddered as it did so; it had all been so real, so* 
hidedusly vivid and coherent throughout. But all unpleasant 
impressions soon yielded to the delicious luxury of his present 
security. 

As his last conscious moment had been passed in his own din- 
ing-room, the fact that he opened his eyes in a cab, instead of 
confirming his worst fears, actually helped to restore the unfor- 
tunate old gentleman’s serenity; for he frequently drove home 
from the city in this manner, and believed himself now, instead 
of being, as was actually the case, in that marvelous region of 
^heap photography, rocking-horses, mild stone lions, and wheels 
and ladders — the Easton Road — to be bowling along Holborn. 

Now that he was thoroughly awake, he found positive amuse- 
ment in going over each successive incident of his night-mare 
experience with the talisman, and smiling at the tricks his imag- 
ination had played him. 

“I wonder now how the dickens I came to dream such out- 
rageous nonsense!” he said to himself, for even his dreams were, 
as a rule, within the bounds of probability. But he was not 
long in tracing it to the deviled kidneys he had had at the club 
for lunch, and some curious old brown sherry Robinson had 
given him afterward at his office. 


VICE VERSA. 


37 


“Gad, what a shock the thing has given mel’^ he thought. 
“ I can hardly shake off the feeling even now.” 

As a rule, after waking up on the verge of a fearful crisis, the 
effect of the horror fades swiftly away, as one detail after another 
evades a memory which is never too anxious to retain them, and 
each moment brings a deeper sense of relief and self-congratu- 
lation. 

But in Paul’s case, curiously enough, as he could not help 
thinking, the more completely roused he became, the greater 
grew his iiheasiness. 

Perhaps the first indication of the truth was suggested to him 
by a lurking suspicion — which he tried to dismiss as mere fancy 
— that he filled rather less of the cab than he had always been 
accustomed to do. 

To reassure himself he set his thoughts to review all the pro- 
ceedings of that day, feeling that, if he could satisfactorily 
account for the time up to his taking the cab, that would be 
conclusive as to the unreality of anything that appeared to have 
happened later in his own house. He got on well enough till 
he came to the hour at which he had left the office, and then, 
search his memory as he would, he could not remember hailing 
any cab ! 

Could it be another delusion, too, or w*as it the fact that he 
had found himself much pressed for time and had come home 
by the Underground to Praed Street? It must have been the 
day before, but that was Sunday. Saturday, then? But the 
recollection seemed too recent and fresh; and besides, on Satur- 
day he had left at two, and had taken Barbara to see Messrs. 
Maskelyne and Cooke’s performance. 

Slowly, insidiously, but with irresistible force, the conviction 
crept upon him that he had dined, and dined well. 

'‘If I have dined already,” he told himself, ‘‘I can’t be going 
home to dinner; and, if I am not going home to dinner, what— 
what am I doing in this cab?” 

The bare idea that something might be’ wrong with him after 
all made him impatient to put an end to all suspense. He must 
knock this scotched nightmare once for all on the head by a de- 
liberate appeal to his senses. 

The cab had passed the lighted shops now, and was driving 
between squares and private houses, so that Mr. Bultitude had 
to wait until the sickly rays of a street lamp glanced into the 
cab for a moment, and, as they did so, he put his feet upon the 
opposite seat and examined his boots and trousers with breath- 
less eagerness. 

It was not to be denied ; they were not his ordinary boots, 
nor did he ever wear such trousers as he saw above them! Al- 
ways a careful and punctiliously neat old gentleman, he was 


39 


VICE VERSA. 


more than commonly exacting concerning the make and polish 
of his boots and the set of his trousers. 

These boots were clumsy, square-toed, and thick-soled; one 
was even patched on the side. The trousers v/ere heavy and 
rough, of the kind advertised as “ wear-resisting fabrics, 
suitable for youths at school,” frayed at the ends, and shiny — 
shamefully shiny — about the knees! 

In hot despair he rapidly passed his hands over his person. 
It felt unusually small and slim, Mr. Bultitude being endowed 
with what is euphemistically termed a “presence,” and it was 
with an agony rarely felt at such a discovery that he realized 
that, for the first time for more than twenty years, he actually 
had a waist. 

Then, as a last resource, he took off his hat and felt for the 
broad, smooth,, egg-like surface, garnished by scanty side patches 
of thin hair, which he knew he ought to find. 

It was gone — hidden under a crop of thick, close-curling 
locks! 

This last disappointment completely overcame him; he had a 
kind of short fit in the cab as the bitter truth was brought home 
to him unmistakably. 

Yes, this was no dream of a distempered digestion, but sober 
reality. The whole of that horrible scene in the dining-room 
had really taken place; and now he, Paul Bultitude the widely 
respected merchant of Mincing Lane, a man of means and posi- 
tion, was being ignominiously packed off to school as if he 
were actually the schoolboy some hideous juggle had made him 
appear! 

It was only with a violent effort that he could succeed in 
commanding his thoughts sufficiently to decide on some imme- 
diate action. “I must be cool,” he kept muttering to himself, 
with shaking lips, “quite cool and collected. Everything will 
depend on that now!” 

It was some comfort to him in this extremity to recognize on 
the box tlie well-known broad back of Clegg, a cabman who 
stabled his two horses in some mews near Praed Street, and 
whom he had been accustomed to patronize in bad weather for 
several years. 

Clegg would know him in spite of his ridiculous transforma- 
tion. 

His idea was to stop the cab and turn round and drive home 
again, when they would find that he was not to be got rid of 
again quite so easily. If Dick imagined he meant to put up 
tamely with this kind of treatment he was vastly mistaken; he 
would return home bodily and claim his rights! 

No reasonable person could be perverse enough to doubt his 
identity when once matters came to the proof; though at first. 


VICE VERSA. 


39 


of course, he might find a difficulty in establishing it. His 
children, his clerks, and his servants would soon get used to 
his appearance, and would learn to look below the mere surface, 
and then there was always the possibility of putting everything 
right by means of the magic stone. 

“I won’t lose a minute!” he said aloud; and, letting down 
the window, leaned out and shouted “Stop!” till he was 
hoarse. 

But Clegg either could not or would not hear; he drove on 
at full speed, a faster rate of progress than that adopted by most 
drivers of four-wheeled cabs being one of his chief recommen- 
dations. 

They were now passing Euston. It was a muggy, slushy 
night, with a thin, brown fog wreathing the houses, and fading 
away above their tops into a dull, slate-blue sky. The wet 
street looked like a black canal; the blurred forms, less like 
vehicles than nondescript boats, moving over its inky surface, 
were indistinctly reflected therein; the gas-lights flared redly 
through the murky haze. It was not a pleasant evening in 
which to be out of doors. 

Paul would have opened the cab- door and jumped out had 
he dared, but his nerve failed him, and, indeed, considering the 
speed of the cab, the leap would have been dangerous to a far 
more active individual. So he was forced to wait resignedly 
until the station should be reached, when he determined to 
make Clegg understand his purpose with as little loss of time as 
possible. 

“I must pay him something extra,” he thought; “I’ll give 
him a sovereign to take me back.” And he searched his pockets 
for the loose coin he usually carried about him in such abund- 
ance; there was no gold in any of them. 

He found, however, a variety of miner and less negotiable 
articles, which he fished out one by one from unknown depths 
— a curious collection. There were a stumpy German-silver 
pencil-case, a broken prism from a crystal chandelier, a gilded 
Jew’s harp, a little book in which the leaves, on being turned 
briskly, gave a semblance of motion to the sails of a black wind- 
mill drawn therein, a broken tin soldier, some Hong-Kong cop- 
pers with holes in them, and a quantity of little cogged wheels 
from the inside of a watch; while a further search was rewarded 
by an irregular lump of toffee imperfectly infolded in sticky 
brown paper. 

He threw the whole of these treasures out of the window with 
indescribable disgust, and, feeling something like a purse in a 
side-pocket, opened it eagerly. 

It held five shillings exactly, the coins corresponding to those 
he had pushed across to his son such a little while ago! It did 


40 


VICE VERSA. 


not seem to him quite such a magnificent sum now as it h ad 
done then; he had shifted his point of view. 

It was too clear that the stone must have carried out his 
thoughtless wish with scrupulous and conscientious exactness 
in every detail. He had wanted, or said he wanted, to be a boy 
again like Dick, and accordingly he had become a perfect dupli- 
cate, even to the contents of the pockets. Evidently nothing 
on the face of things showed the slightest difference. Yet — and 
here lay the sting of the metamorphosis — he was conscious under 
it all of being his old original self, in utter discordance with the 
youthful form, in which he was an unwilling prisoner. 

By this time the cab had driven up the sharp incline, and 
under the high pointed archway of St. Pancras terminus, and 
now drew up with a jerk against the steps leading to the book- 
ing-office. 

Paul sprang out at once in a violent passion. “ Here, you, 
Clegg !’^ he said, “ why the devil didn’t you pull up when I told 
you, eh?” 

Clegg was a burly, red-faced man, with a husky voice and a 
general manner which conveyed the impression that he regarded 
teetotalism, as a principle, with something more than disap- 
proval. 

“ Why didn’t I pull up?” he said, bending stiffly down from 
his box. “ ’Cause I didn’t want to lose a good customer, that’s 
why I didn’t pull up!” 

“ Do you mean to say you don’t know me?” 

“Know yer?” said Clegg, with an approach to sentiment; 
“ I’ve knowed yer when you was a babby in frocks. I’ve knowed 
yer fust nuss (and a fine young \yoman she were till she took to 
drinking, as has been the ruin of many). I’ve knowed yer in 
Infancy’s hour and in yer byhood’s bloom! I’ve druv yer to 
this ’ere worry station twice afore. Know yer!” 

Paul saw the uselessness of arguing with him. “ Then, ah-- 
drive me back at once. Let those boxes alone. I — I’ve im- 
portant business at home which I’d forgotten.” 

Clegg gave a vinous wink. “Lor, yer at it agin,” he said, 
with admiration. “ What a artful young gent it is! But it ain’t 
what yer may call good enough, so to speak, it ain’t. Clegg, 
don’t do that no more!” 

“Don’t do what?” asked Paul. 

“Don’t drive no young gents as is a bein’ sent to school back 
agin into their family’s bosims,” said Clegg, sententiously. 
“You was took ill sudden in my cab the larst time. Offal bad 
you was, to be sure, to hear ye, and I druv yer back; and I 
never got no return fare, I didn’t, and yer par he made hisself 
downright nasty over it, said as if it occurred agin he shouldn’t 


VICE VERSA. 


41 


etaploy me no more. I durstn’t go and offend yer par; he’s a 
good customer to me, lie is.” 

“I’ll give you a sovereign to do it,” said Paul. 

“ If yer wouldn't tell no tales, I might put yer down at the 
corner p’raps,” said Clegg, hesitating, to Paul’s joy; “ not as it 
ain’t cheap at that, but let’s see yer suffering fust. Why,” he 
cried, with lofty contempt as he saw from Paul’s face that the 
coin was not producible, “y’aint got no suffering! Garn away, 
and don’t try to tempt a pore cabby as has a livin’ to makel 
What d’ye think of this, porter, now? ’Ere’s a young gent a 
try in’ to back out o’ going to school when he ought to be glad 
and thankful as he’s receivin’ the blessin’s of a good eddication. 
Eook at me. I’m a ’ard workin’-man, I am. I aint ’ad no eddi- 
^ation. The kids, they’re a learnin’ French, and free’and drorin, 
and the bones on a skellington at the Board School, and I pays 
my coppers down every week cheerful. And why, porter? 
Wliy, young master? ’Cause I knows the vally on it! But 
when I sees a real young gent a despisin’ of the oppertoonities 
as a bountiful Providence and a excellent par has ’eaped on his 
’ed, it — it makes me sick, it inspires Clegg with a pity and a 
contemp’ for such ingratitood, which he cares not for to ’ide 
from public voo!’’ 

Cle^ delivered this harangue with much gesture and in a 
loud tone, which greatly edified the porters and disgusted Mr. 
Bultitude. 

“ Go away,” said the latter, “ that’s enough. You’re drunk!” 

“Drunk!” bellowed the outraged Clegg, rising on the box in 
his wratln “ ’Ear that. ’Ark at this ’ere young cock sparrer 
as tells a fam’ly man like Clegg as he’s drunk! Drunk, after 
drivin’ his par in this ’ere werry cab through frost and fine 
fifteen year or more, I wonder yer don’t say the old ’orse is 
drunk; you’ll be sayin’ that next! Drunk! oh, cert’nly, by ail 
means. Never you darken my eab doors no more. I shall take 
and tell your par, I shall. Drunk, indeed! A ill-conditioned 
young wiper as ever I see. Drunkl yah!” 

And with much cursing and growling, Clegg gathered up his 
reins and drove off into the fog, Boaler having apparently pre- 
paid the fare. 

“Where for, sir, please?” said a porter, who had been putting 
the playlxrx and portmanteau on a truck during the altercation. 

“Nowhere,” said Mr. Bultitude. ^‘I — I’m not going by this 
train; find me a cab with a sober driver.” 

The porter looked round. A moment before there had been 
several cabs discharging their loads at the steps; now the last 
had rolled away emi3ty. 

^‘You might find one inside the station by the arrival plat- 


42 


VICE VEESA. 


form,” he suggested; “-but there’ll be sure to be one cornin’' up 
here in another minute, sir, if you like to wait. ” 

Paul thought the other course might be the longer one, and 
decided to stay where he was. So he walked into the lo-fty hall 
in which the booking-offices are placed, and waited there by the 
huge fire that blazed in the stove until he sho>uld hear the cab 
arrive which could take him back to West bourne Terrace. 

One or two trains were about to start, and the j^lace was full. 
There were several Cambridge men “ going up ” after the 
Christmas vacation, in every variety of ulster; some tugging at 
refractory white terriers, one or two intrusting tall bright 
bicycles to dubious porters with many cautions a^d directions. 
There were burly old farmers going back to their quiet country- 
side, flushed with the prestige of a successful stand under cross- 
examination in some witness-box at Lincoln’s Inn; to tell and 
retell the story over hill and dale, in the market-place and bar- 
parlor, every week for the rest of their honest lives. There was 
the usual pantomime rally” on a mild scale, with real frantic 
passengers, and porters, and trucks, and trays of lighted lamps. 

Presently, out of the crowd and confusion, a small boy, in a 
thick pilot- jacket and an immensely tall hat, whom Paul had 
observed looking at him intently for some time, walked up to 
the stove and greeted him familiarly. 

“Hallo, Baltitude!” he said, “I thought it was you. Here 
we are again, eh? light” and he gig*gled dismally. 

He was a pale-faced boy with spectacles, very light green 
eyes, long, rather ragged black hair, a slouching walk, and a 
smile half-simpering, half-impudent. 

Mr. Bultitude was greatly staggered by the presumption of so 
small a boy venturing to address him in this way. He could 
only stare haughtily. 

“You might find a word to say to a fellow!” said the boy in 
an aggrieved tone. “Look here; come and get your baggage 
labeled.” 

“I don’t want it labeled,” said Paul, stiffly, feeling bound to 
say something. “I’m waiting for a cab to take me home 
again.” 

The other gave a loud whistle. 

“ That’ll make it rather a short term, won’t it, if you’'re going 
home for the holidays already? You’re a cool chap, Bultitude! 
If I were to go back to my governor now, he wouldn’t see it. 
It would put him to no end of a bait. But you’re chaffing ” 

Paul walked away from him with marked coolness. He was 
not going to trouble himself to talk to his son’s schoolfellows. 

Ain’t you well?” said the boy, not at all discouraged by his 
reception, following him and taking his arm. “Down in the 
mouth? It is beastly, isn’t it, having to go back to old Grim- 


VICE VERSA. 


43 


stone’s? The snow gave ns an extra week, though — we’ve much 
to be thankful for. I wish it was the first day of the holidays, 
don’t you? What’s the matter with you? What have I done to 
put you in a wax?” 

“Nothing at present,” said Paul. “I don’t speak to you, 
merely because I don’t happen to have the — an — pleasure of 
your acquaintance.” 

“Oh, very well, then; I dare say you know best,” said the 
other, huffily. “Only I thought — considering we came the 
same half, and have been chums, and always set next one an- 
other ever since — you might perhaps just recollect having met 
me before, you know. ” 

“Well, I don’t,” said Mr. Bultitude. “I tell you I haven’t 
the least idea what your name is. The fact is, there has been a 
slight mistake, which I can’t stop to talk about now. There’s a 
cab just driven up outside now. You must excuse me, really, 
my boy, I want to go.” 

He tried to work his arm free from the close and affectionate 
grip of his unwelcome companion, who was regarding him with 
a sort of admiring leer. 

“ W^hat a fellow you are, Bultitude!” he said; “always up to 
something or other. You know me well enough. I’m Jollaud. 
What is the use of keeping it up any longer? Let’s talk, and 
stop humbugging. How much grub have you brought back 
this time?” 

To be advised to stop humbugging, and be persecuted with 
such idle questions as these, maddened the poor gentleman. A 
hansom really liad rolled up to the steps outside. He must i)ut 
an end to this waste of precious time, and escape from this 
highly inconvenient small boy. 

He forced Ins way to the door, the boy still keeping fast hold 
of his arm. Fortunately the cab was still there, and its late oc- 
cupant, a tall, broad man, was standing with his back to them, 
paying the driver. Paul was only just in time. 

“ Porter!” he cried. “ Where’s that porter? I want my box 
put on that cab. No, I don’t care about the luggage; engage 
the cab. Now, you little ruffian, are you going to let me go? 
Can’t you see I’m anxious, to get away?” 

Jolland giggled more impishly than ever. 

“ Well, you have got cheek!” he said. “Go on, I wish you 
may get that cab. I’m sure!” 

Paul, thus released, was just hurrying t')ward the cab, when 
the stranger who had got cut of it, settled the fare with satis- 
faction to himself, and turned sharply round. 

Tlie gaslight fell full on his face, and Mr. Bultitude recog- 
nized that the form and features were those of no stranger — he 
had stumbled upon the very last person he had expected or de- 


44 


VICE VERSA. 


sired to meet just then — his flight was intercepted by his son’s 
schoolmaster, Dr. Grimstone himself! 

The suddenness of the shock threw him completely off his 
balance. In an ordinary way the encounter would not, of 
course, have discomposed him; but now he would have given 
worlds for presence of mind enough either to rush past to the 
cab, and secure his only chance of freedom before the doctor 
had fully realized his intention, or else greet him affably and 
calmly, and, taking him quietly aside, explain his awkward 
position with an easy, man-of-the-world air, which would in- 
sure instant conviction. 

Both courses were equally impossible. He stood there, right 
in Dr. Grimstone’s 23ath, with terrified, starting eyes and quiv- 
ering limbs, more like an unhappy guinea-pig exijecting the 
advance of a boa, than a British merchant in the x^resence of 
his son’s schoolmaster! He was sick and faint with alarm, and 
the consciousness that apj^earances were all against him. 

There was nothing in the least extraordinary in tlie fact of 
the doctor’s presence at the station. Mr. Bultitude might 
easily have taken this into account as a very likely contingency 
and have provided accordingly, had he troubled to think, for 
it was Dr. Grimstone’s custom, upon the.first day of the term, 
to come up to town and meet as many of his j^upils upon the 
platform as intended to return by a train previously specified at 
the foot of the school-bills; and Paul had even expressly insisted 
upon Dick’s traveling under surveillance in this manner, tlxink- 
ing it necessary to keep him out of premature mischief. 

It makes a calamity doubly hard to bear when one looks back 
and sees by what a trivial chance it has come upon us, and how 
slight an effort would have averted it altogether; and Mr. Bulti- 
tude cursed his own stupidity as he stood there, rooted to the 
ground, and saw the hansom (a “patent safety” to him in so- 
ber earnest) drive off and abandon him to his fate. 

Dr. Grimstone bore down heavily upon him and Jolland, who 
had by this time come up. He was a tall and imposing person- 
age, with a strong black beard and small, angry gray eyes, 
Slightly blood-tinged; he wore garments of a semi-clerical cut 
and color, though he was not in orders. He held out a hand to 
each with elaborate geniality. 

“Ha, Bultitude, my boy, how are you? How are you, Jol- 
land? Come back, braced in body and mind by your vacation, 
eh? That’s as it should be. ^ Have you tickets? No? follow 
me, then. You’re both over a*ge, I believe. There you are; take 
care of them. ” 

And, before Paul could protest, he had purchased tickets for 
all three, after which he had laid an authoritative hand upon 


TICE VEESA. 


45 


Mr. Bultitiide's shoulder and walked him out through the book- 
ing-hall upon the platform. 

“This is awful,” thought Paul, shrinking involuntarily; 
^‘simply awful. He evidently has no idea who I really am. 
TJnioss I’m very careful I sliall be dragged off to Crichton House 
before I can put him right. If I could onlj^ get him away alone 
somewhere.” 

As if in answer to the wush, the doctor guided him by a sli^^ht 
pressure straight along by the end of the station, saying to Joi- 
land as he did so, “I wish to have a little serious conversation 
with Richard in private. Suppose you go to the bookstall and 
see if you can find out any of our young friends. Tell them to 
wait for me there.” 

When they w^ere alone the doctor paced solemnly along in 
silence for some moments, while Paul, wdio had always been 
used to consider himself a fairly^ prominent object, whatever 
might be his surroundings, began to feel an altogether novel 
sensation of utter insignificance upon that immense brown plain 
of platform and under the huge span of the arches whose gird- 
ers w'ere lost in wu’eaths of mingled fog and smoke. 

Still he had some hope. Was it possible, after all, that the 
doctor had divined his secret, and was searcliing for words deli- 
cate enough to convey his condolences? 

^‘I wished to tell you, Bultitude,” said the doctor presently, 
and his first w’ords dashed all Paul’s rising hopes, “ that I hear 
you are returning this term with the resolve to do better things. 
You have caused your excellent father much i)ain in the past. 
You little know the grief a willful boy can inflict upon his 
|)arent. ” 

“ I think I have a very fair idea of it,” thought Paul, but he 
said nothing. 

“ I hope you left him in good health? Sucha devoted parent, 
Richard — such a noble heart!” 

At any other time Mr. Bultitude might have felt gratified by 
these eulogies, but just then he was conscious that he could lay 
no claim to them. It was Dick w'ho had the noble heart now, 
and he himself felt less of a devoted parent even than he looked. 

“ I had a letter from him during the vacation,” continued Dr. 
Orimstone; “a sweet letter, Richard, breathing in every line a 
father’s anxiety and concern for your welfare.” 

Paul was a little staggered. He remembered having written, 
but he would scarcely perhaps have described his letter as 
“sweet,” as he had not done much more than enclose a check 
for his son’s acount and object to the items for pew-rent and 
scientific lectures with the diorama as excessive. 

“But — and this is what I wanted to say to you, Bultitude — 
his is no blind, doting aliection. He has imxfiored me, for your 


46 


VICE VERSA. 


own sake, if I see you diverging ever so slightly from the path 
of duty, not to stay my hand. And I shall not forget his in- 
junctions.” ^ 

A few minutes ago, and it would have seemed to Paul so sim- 
ple and easy a matter to point out to the doctor the very excu- 
sable error into which he had fallen. It was no more than he 
would have to do repeatedly upon his return, and here was an 
excellent opportunity for an explanation. 

But, somehow, the words would not come. The schoolmas- 
ter’s form seemed so tremendous and towering, and he so feeble 
and powerless before him, that he soon persuaded himself that 
a public place, like a station platform, was no scene for domes- 
tic revelations of so i3ainful a character. 

He gave up all idea of resistance at present. “ Perliaps I had 
better leave him in his error till we get into the train,” he 
thoug|it; “ then we will get nd of tliat other boy, and I can 
break it gradually in the railway carriage as I get more accus- 
tomed to him.” 

But, in spite of his determination to unbosom himself with- 
out farther delay, he knew that a kind of fascinated resignation 
was growing upon him and gaining firmer hold each minute. 

Something must be done to break the spell and burst the 
toils which were being woven round him, before all effort be- 
came impossible. 

“And now,” said the doctor, glancing up at the great clock- 
face on which a reflector cast a patch of dim yellow light, “ we 
must be thinking of starting. But don’t forget wdiat I have 
said. ” 

And they walked back toward the bookstalls with their cheery 
warmth of color, past the glittering buffet, and on up the plat- 
form, to a part where six boys of various sizes were standing 
huddled forlornly together under a ga^ight. 

“Aha!” said Dr. Grimstone, with a slight touch of the ogre 
in his tone, “more of my fellows, eh? We shall be quite a 
party. How' do you do, boys ? Welcome back to your 
studies!” 

x\nd the six boys came forward, all evidently in the lowest 
spirits, and raised their tall hats with a studied j^oliteness. 

“ Some old friends, Bultitude,” said the doctor, impelling the 
unwilling Paul toward the group. “You know' Tipping, of 
course; Coker, too, you’ve met before — and Coggs. How are 
you, Siggers? You’re looking well. All, by the way, I see a 
new' face — Kiffin, I think? Kiffin, this is Master Bultitude, wlio 
will make himself your mentor, I hope, and initiate you into 
our various manners and customs.” 

And, with a horrible dream-like sense of unreality, Mr. Bulti- 


VICE VERSA. 


47 


tude found himself being greeted by several entire strangers 
with a degree oi warmth embarrassing in the extreme. 

He Avoiild have liked to protest and declare himself there and 
then in his true colors, but if this had been difficult alone with 
the doctor under the clock, it was impossible now, and he sub- 
mitted ruefully enough to their unwelcome advances. 

Tipping, a tall, red-haired, raw-boned boy, with sleeves and 
trousers he had outgrown, and immense boots, wrung Paul’s 
hand with misdirected energy, saying “ how-de-do?” with a 
gruff superiority, mercifully tempered by a touch of sheepish- 
ness. 

Coggs and Coker welcomed him with open arms as an equal, 
while Siggers, a short, slight, sharp-featured boy, with a very 
fashionable hat and shirt-collar, and a horse-shoe pin, drawled, 
“ How are you, old boy?” with the languor of a confirmed man 
about town. 

The other two were Biddlecomb, a boy with a blooming com- 
plexion and a singularly sweet voice, and the new comer, Kiffin, 
w ho did not seem much more at home in the society of other 
boys than Mr. Bultitude himself, for he kept nervously away 
from them, shivering with the piteous self-abandonment of an 
Italian greyhound. 

■ Paul was now convinced that, unless he exerted himself con- 
siderably, his identity with his son would never even be ques- 
tioned, and the danger roused him to a sudden determination. 

However his face and figure might belie him, nothing in his 
speech or conduct should encourage the mistake. Whatever it 
might cost him to overcome his fear of the doctor, he w'ould 
force himself to act and talk^ostentatiously, as much like his own 
ordinary self as possible, during the journey dow n to Bodwell 
Begis, so as to prepare the doctor’s mind for the disclosures he 
meant to make at the earliest opportunity. He was beginning 
to see that the railway carriage, with all those boys sitting by 
and staring, would be an inconvenient place for so delicate and 
difficult a confession. 

The guard having warned intending passengers to take their 
seats, and Jolland, who had been unaccountably missing all this 
time, having appeared from the direction of the refreshment 
buffet, furtively brushing away some suspicious-looking flakes 
and crumbs from his coat, and contrived to join the pa.rty un- 
perceived, they all got into a first-class compartment — Paul with 
the rest. 

He longed for moral courage to stand out boldly and refuse to 
leave town, but, as w'e have seen, it was beyond his powers, and 
he temporized. Very soon the whistle had sounded and the 
train had begun to glide slowly out beyond the platform and 
arch, past the signal-boxes and long, low sheds and offices, 


48 VICE VERSA. 

which are the suburbs of a large terminus — and then it was 
too late. 


CHAPTER rV. 

A MINNOW AMONG TKITONS. 

*‘Ro 5"S are capital fellows in their own way among their mates; but 

they are unwholesome companions for grown ijeople.” — J^ssays of 

Elia. 

Eor some time after they w^ere fairly started the doctor read 
his evening paper with an air of impartial but severe criticism, 
and Mr. Bultitude, as he sat opposite him next to the window, 
found himself overwhelmed with a new and very unpleasant 
timidity. 

He knew that, if he would free himself, this utterly unreason- 
able feeling must be wrestled with and overcome; that now, if 
ever, was the time to assert himself, and prove that he was any- 
thing but the raw youth he was conscious of appearing. He had 
merely to speak and act, too, in his ordinary, every day manner; 
to forget as far as possible the change that had affected his outer 
man, which was not so very difficult to do after all — and yet his 
heart sank lower and lower as each fresh telegraph-post flitted 
past. 

will let him speak first,” he thought; “ then I shall be 
able to feel my way.” 

But there was more fear than caution in the resolve. 

At last, however, the doctor laid down his paper, and, looking 
round with the glance of proprietorship on his pupils, who had 
relapsed into a decorous and gloomy silence, observed: 

“ Well, boys, you have had an unusually protracted vacation 
this time, owing to the unprecedented severity of the weather. ' 
We must try to make up for it by the zest and ardor with Avhich 
we pursue our studies during the term. I intend to reduce the 
Easter holiday by a week by vray of compensation.” 

This announcement (which by no means relieved the general 
depression — the boys receiving it with a sickly interest) was good 
news to Paul, and even had the effect of making him forget his 
position for the time. 

“I’m uncommonly glad to hear it. Dr. Grimstone,” he said, 
heartily; “ that’s as it should be. Boys have too many holidays 


VICE VERSA. 


49 


as it is. There’s no reason, to my mind, why parents should be 
the sufferers by every snow-storm. It’s no joke,. I can assure 
you, to have a great, idle boy hanging about the place eating his 
empty head off.” 

A burglar enlarging uiDon the sanctity of the law of property, 
or a sheep urging the necessity for butcher’s meat, could hardly 
have produced a greater sensation. 

Every boy was roused from his languor to stare and wonder 
at these traitorous sentiments, which, from the mouth of any 
but a known and tried companion, would have roused bitter hos- 
tility and contempt. As it was, their wonder became a raptur- 
ous admiration, and the^ waited for the situation to develop 
with a fearful and secret joy. 

It was some time before the doctor quite recovered himself; 
then he said, with a grim smile: 

“ This is indeed finding Saul among the prophets; your senti- 
ments, if sincere, Bultitude — I repeat, if sincere — are very cred- 
itable. Bat I am obliged to look upon them with suspicion.” 
Then, as if to dismiss a doubtful subject, he inquired generally, 
“And how have you all been spending your holidays, eh?” 

There was no attempt to answer this question, it being felt 
probably that it was, like the conventional “How do you do?” 
one to which an answer is neither desired nor expected, especial- 
ly as he continued almost immediately: 

“1 took my boy Tom up to town the week before Christmas 
to see the representation of the ‘Agamemnon’ at St. George’s 
Hall, The ‘Agamemnon,’ as most of you are doubtless aware, 
is a drama by ,<Eschylus, a Greek poet of established reputa- 
tion. I was much pleased by the intelligent appreciation Tom 
showed during the performance. He distinctly recognized 
several words from his Greek Grammar in the course of the 
dialogue.” 

No one seemed capable of responding except Mr. Bultitude, 
who dashed into the breach with an almost pathetic effort to 
maintain his accustomed stiffness. 

“I may be old-fashioned,” he said — “ very likely I am; but I, 
ah, decidedly disapprove of taking children to dramatic exhibi- 
tions of any kind. It unsettles them, sir— unsettles them.” 

Dr. Grimstone made no answer, but he put a hand on each 
knee, and glared with pursed lips and a leonine bristle of the 
beard at his youthful critic for some moments, after which he 
returned to his “Globe” with a short ominous cough. 

“ I have offended him now,” thought Paul. “I must be more 
careful what I say. But I’ll get him into conversation again 
presently.” 

So he began at the first opportunity: 


50 


VICE VERSA. 


“You have this evening’s paper, I see. No telegrams of im- 
portance, I suppose?” 

“No, sir,” said the doctor, shortly. 

“ I saw a report in to day’s ‘ Times,’ ” said poor Mr. Bultitude, 
with a desperate attempt at his most conversational and old- 
gentlemanly manner — “I saw a report that the camphor crop 
was likely to be a failure this season. Now, it’s a very singular 
thing about camphor, that the Japanese — He hoped to lead 
the conversation round to colonial prudence, and thus open the 
doctor’s eyes by the extent of his acquaintance with the sub- 
ject. 

“I am already acquainted with the method of obtaining 
camphor, thank you, Bultitude,” said the doctor, with danger- 
ous politeness, 

“I was about to observe, when you interrupted me,” said 
Paul — “ and this is really a fact that I doubt if you are aware of 
— that the Japanese never ” 

“Well, well,” said the doctor, with some impatience; “prob- 
ably they never do, sir; but I shall have other opportunities of 
finding out what you have read about the Japanese.” 

But he glanced over the top of the paper at the indignant 
Paul, who was not accustomed to have his information received 
in this manner, with less suspicion and a growing conviction 
that some influence during the holidays had changed the boy 
from a graceless young scapegrace into a prig of the first 
water. 

“ He’s most uncivil,” Mr. Bultitude told himself — “almost 
insulting; but I’ll go on. I'm rousing his curiosity. I’m 
making way with him; he sees a difference already.” And so 
he applied himself once more. 

“You’re a smoker, of course, Dr. Grimstone?” he began. 
“We don’t stop anywhere, I think, on the way, and I must con- 
fess myself, after dinner, a whiff or two — I think I can give you 
a cigar you’ll appreciate.” 

And he felt for his cigar-case, really forgetting that it was 
gone, like all other incidents of his own self; while Jolland 
giggled with unstrained delight at such charming effrontery. 

“If I did not know’, sir,” said the doctor, now effectually 
roused, “that this w^as ill-timed buffoonery and not an inten- 
tional insult, I should be seriously angry. As it is, I can over- 
look any exuberance of mirth, which is, perhaps, pardonable 
when the mind is elated by the return to the cheerful bustle and 
activity of school-life. But be very careful.” 

“ He needn’t be so angry,” thought Paul; “how could Iknow 
he doesn’t smoke? But I’m afraid he doesn’t quite know me, 
even now.” 

Bo he began again : 


YICE VERSA. 


51 


“Did I hear you mention the name of Kiffin among those of 
your puj^ils here, doctor? I thought so. Not the son of Jordan 
kiffin, of College Hill, surely? Yes? Why, bless my soul, 
your father aud I, my little fellow, were old friends in days be- 
fore you were born or thought of — born or thought of. He was 
in a very small way then, a very small — Eh, Dr. Grimstone, don’t 
you feel well?” 

“I see what you’re aiming at, sir. You wish to prove to me 
that I’m making a mistake in my treatment of you. ” 

“That was my idea, certainly,” said Paul, much pleased. 
“ I’m very glad you take me, doctor.” 

“I shall take you in a way you won’t appreciate soon, if this 
goes on,” said the doctor under his breath. 

“When the time comes I -shall know how to deal with you. 
Till then you’ll have the goodness to hold your tongue,” he 
said aloud. 

“It’s not a very polite way of putting it,” Paul said to him- 
self, “ but, at any rate, he sees how the case stands now, and 
after all, perhaps, he only speaks like that to put the boys oil 
the scent. If so, it’s uncommonly considerate and thoughtful 
of him, by Gad. I won’t say any more.” 

But by and by, the open window made him break his resolu- 
tion. 

“I’m sorry to inconvenience you. Dr. Grimstone,” he said, 
with the air of an old gentleman used to having his way in these 
matters, “but I positively must ask you either to allow me to 
have this window up or to change places with you. The night 
air, sir, at this time of the year is fatal, my doctor tells me, 
simply fatal to a man of my constitution.” 

The doctor pulled up the window with a frown, and yet a 
somewhat puzzled expression. 

“I warn you, Bultitude,” he said, “you are acting very im- 
prudently.” 

“So I am,” thought Paul, “so I am. Good for him to re- 
mind me. I must keep it up before all these boys. This un- 
pleasant business musn’t get about. I’ll hold my tongue till we 
get in. Then, I daresay, Grimstone will see me off by the next 
train up, if there is one, and lend me enough for a bed at a hotel 
for the night. I couldn’t get to St. Pancras till very late, of 
course. Or he might offer to put me up at the school. If he 
does, I think I shall very possibly accept. It might be better.” 

And he leaned back in his seat in a much easier frame of 
mind; it was annoying, of course, to have been turned out of 
his warm dining-room, and sent ail the way down to Rodwell 
Begis on a fool’s errand like this; but still, if nothing worse 
came of it, he could put up with the temporary inconvenience, 


52 


VICE VERSA. 


4 

and it was a great relief to be spared the necessity of an expla- 
nation. 

The other boys watched him furtively with growing admira- 
tion, which expressed itself in subdued" whispers, varied by lit- 
tle gurgles and “ squirks ” of laughter; they tried to catch his 
eye and stimulate him to further feats of audacity, but Mr. Bul- 
titude, of course, repulsed all such overtures with a coldness 
and severity which at once baffled and piqued them. 

At last his eccentricity took a shape which considerably les- 
sened their enthusiasm. Kiffin, the new boy, occupied the seat 
next to Paul; he was a nervous-looking little fellow, with a pale 
face and big, pathetic brown eyes like a seal’s, and his dyes9 
bore plain evidence of a mother’s careful supervision, liaving all 
the uncreased trimness and specklessness rarely to be observed 
except in the toilettes of the waxen prodigies in a sliop-window. 

It happened that, as he lay back in the padde'd seat between 
the sheltering partitions, watching the sickly yellow dregs of oil 
surging dismally to and fro with the motion in the lamp over- 
head, or the black, indistinct forms flitting past through the 
misty blue outside, the pathos of his situation became all at 
once too much for him. 

He was a home-bred boy, without any of that taste for the 
companionship and pursuits of his fellows, or capacity for adapt- 
ing himself to their prejudices and requirements, which gives 
some home-bred boys a ready passport into the roughest com- 
munities. 

His heart throbbed with no excited curiosity, no conscious 
pride, at this his first important step in life; he was a forlorn 
little stranger, in an unsympathetic, strange land, and was only 
too well aware of his position. 

So that it is not surprising that, as he thought of the home 
he had left an hour or two ago, which now seemed so shadowy, 
so inaccessible and remote, his eyes began to smart and sting, 
and his chest to heave ominously, until he felt it necessary to 
do something to give a partial vent to his emotions, and prevent 
a j^ublic and disgraceful exhibition of grief. 

Unhappily for him, he found this safety-valve in a series of 
suppressed but distinctly audible sniffs. 

Mr. Bultitude bore this for some time with no other protest 
than an occasional indignant bounce or a lowering frown in the 
offender’s direction, but at last his nerves, strung already to a 
high pitch by all he had undergone, could stand it no longer. 

“Dr. Grimstone.” he said, with polite determination, “I’m 
not a man to complain without good reason, but really I must 
ask you to interfere. Will you tell this boy here, on my right, 
either to coiiU’ol his feelingv or to cry into his pocket-handker- 
chief, like an ordinary human being. A good honest fellow I 


VICE VERSA. 


53 


can understand, but this infernal wliifling and sniffing, sir, I will 
not put up with. It’s nothing less than unnatural in a boy of 
that size.” 

“ Kiffin,” said the doctor, “ are you crying?” 

“N — no, sir,” faltered Kiffin; “I — I think I must have 
caught cold, sir.” 

“I hope you are telling me the truth, because I should be 
sorry to believe you were beginning your new life in a spirit of 
captiousness and rebellion. I’ll have no mutineers in my camp. 
I’ll establish a spirit of trustful happiness and unmurmuring 
content in this school, if I have to flog every boy in it as long as 
I can stand over him. As for you, Richard Bultitude, I have 
no words to express my pain and disgust at the heartless irrev- 
erence with which you persist in mimicking and burlesquing a 
fond and excellent parent. Unless I perceive, sir, in a very 
short time, a due sense of your error and a lively repentance, 
my disapproval will take a very practical form.” 

Mr. Bultitude fell back into his seat with a gasp. It was hard 
to be accused of caricaturing one’s own self, particularly when 
conscious of entire innocence in that respect, but even this was 
slight in comparison with the discovery that he had been so 
blindly deceiving himself! 

The doctor evidently had failed to penetrate his disguise, and 
the dreaded scene of elaborate explanation must be gone through 
after all. 

The boys (with the exception of Kiffin) still found exquisite 
enjoyment in this extraordinary and original exhibition, and 
waited eagerly for further experiments on the doctor’s patience. 

They were soon gratifled. If there was one thing Paul de- 
tested more than another, it was the smell of peppermint — no 
less than three office boys had been discharged by him because, 
as he alleged, they made the clerks’ room reek with it — and now 
the subtle, searching odor of the hated confection was gradually 
stealing into the compartment and influencing its atmosphere. 

He looked at Coggs, who sat on the seat opposite to him, and 
saw his cheeks and lips moving in slow and appreciative absorp- 
tion of something. Coggs was clearly the culprit. 

“ Do you encourage your boys to make common nuisances of 
themselves in a public place, may I ask, Dr. Grimstone?” he in- 
quired, fuming. 

“ Some scarcely seem to require encouragement, Bultitude,” 
said the doctor, pointedly; “ what is the matter now?” 

“If he takes it medicinally,” said Paul, “he should choose 
some other time and place to treat his complaint. If he has a 
depraved liking for the abominable stufl*, for heaven’s sake make 
him refrain from it on occasions when it is a serious annoyance 
to others!” 


54 


VICE VEESA. 


“ Will you explain? Who and what are you talking about?’' 

“ That boy opposite,” said Paul, pointing the finger of denun- 
ciation at the astonished Coggs; “he’s sucking an infernal pep- 
permint lozenge strong enough to throw the train off the rails!” 

“Is what Bultitude tells me true, Coggs?” demanded the 
doctor, in an awful voice. 

Coggs, after making several attempts to bolt the offending 
lozenge, and turning scarlet meanwhile with confusion and 
coughing, stammered huskily something to the effect that he 
had “ bought the lozenges at a chemist’s,” which he seemed to 
consider, for some reason, a mitigating circumstance. 

“ Have you any more of this pernicious stuff about you?” said 
the doctor. 

Very slowly and reluctantly, Coggs brought out of one pocket 
after another three or four neat little white packets, made up 
with that lavish expenditure of time, string, and sealing wax, 
by which the struggling chemist seeks to reconcile the public 
mind to a charge of two hundred and fifty per cent, on cost 
price, and handed them to Dr. Grimstone, who solemnly un- 
fastened them, one by one, glanced at their contents with infinite 
disgust, and flung them out of the window. 

Then he turned to Paul with a look of more favor than he had 
yet shown him. 

“Bultitude,” he said, “I am obliged to you. A severe cold 
in the head has rendered me incapable of detecting this insidi- 
ous act of insubordination and self-indulgence, on which I shall 
have more to say on another occasion. Your moral courage and 
promptness in denouncing the evil thing are much to your 
credit. ” 

“Not at all^” said Paul, “ not at all, my dear sir. I mentioned 
it because I, ah, happen to be peculiarly sensitive on the subject, 

and ” Here he broke off with a sharp yell, and began to rub 

his ankle. “One of these young savages has just given me a 
severe kick; it’s that fellow over there, with the blue necktie. 
I have given him no provocation, and he attacks me in this bru- 
tal manner, sir; 1 appeal to you for protection!” 

“So, Coker” (Coker wore a blue necktie), said the doctor, 
“you emulate the wild ass in more qualities than those of stu- 
pidity and stubbornness, do you? You lash out with your hind 
legs at an inoffensive schoolfellow with all the viciousness of a 
kangaroo, eh? Write out all you find in Buffon’s Natural His- 
tory upon those two animals a dozen times, and bring it to me 
to-moiTow evening. If I am to stable wild asses, sir, they shall 
be broken in!” 

Six pairs of sulky, glowering eyes were fixed upon the uncon- 
scious Paul for the rest of the journey; indignant protests and 
dark vows of vengeance were muttered under cover of the 


VICE VERSA. 


55 


N 


friendly roar and rattle of tunnels. But the object of them 
heard nothing; his composure was returning once more in the 
sunshiae of Dr. Grimstone’s approbation, and he almost decided 
on declaring himself in the station lij. 

And now at last the train was grinding along discordantly 
with the brakes on, and, after a little preliminary jolting and 
banging over the points, drew up at a long, lighted platform, 
where melancholy porters paced up and down, croaking “ Bod- 
well Eegis!” like so many Solomon Eagles predicting woe. 

Paul got out with the others, and w^alked forward to the 
guard’s van, where he stood shivering in the raw night air by a 
small heap of portmanteaux and white, clamped boxes. 

“1 should like to tell him all about it now,” he thought, “if 
he wasn’t so busy. I’ll get him to go in a cab alone with me, 
and get it over before we reach the house.” 

Dr Grimstone certainly did not seem in a very receptive mood 
for confidences just then. No flies were to be seen, which he 
took as a personal outrage, and visited upon the station-master 
in hot indignation. 

“It’s scandalous, I tell you,” he was saying; “scandalbus! 
No cabs to meet the train. My school reassembles to-da 3 ^ and 
here I find no arrangements made for their accommodation! 
Not even an omnibus! I shall write to the manager and report 
this. Let some one go for a fly immediately. Boys, go into 
the waiting room till I come to you. -Stay — there are too many 
for one fly. Coker, Coggs, and, let me see, yes, Bultitude, you 
all know your way. Walk on, and tell Mrs. Grimstone we are 
coming.” t 

Mr. Bultitude was perhaps more relieved than disappointed 
by this postponement of a disagreeable interview, though, if he 
had seen Coker dig Coggs in the side with a chuckle of exultant 
triumph, he might have had misgivings as to the prudence of 
trusting himself alone witli them. 

As it was, he almost determined to trust the pair with his se- 
cret. 

“They will be valuable witnesses,” he said to himself, 
“that, whoever else I may be, I am not Dick.” 

So he went on briskly ahead over a covered bridge and down 
some break-neck wooden steps, and passed through the wioket 
out upon the railed-in space, where the cabs and omnibuses 
should have been, but which w’as now a blank, spectral waste 
with a white ground-fog lurking round its borders. 

Here he was joined by his companions, who, after a little 
whispering, came up one on either side and put an arm through 
each of his. 

“Well,” said Paul, thinking to banter them agreeably; “here 
you are, young men, eh? Holidays all over now! Work while 


56 


VICE VERSA. 


You’re young, and then Gad, you’re walking me off my 

legs. Stop! I’m not as young as I used to be — — ” 

“Grim can’t see us here, can he, Coker?” said Coggs, when 
they had cleared the gates and palings. 

“Not he!” said Coker. 

“Very well, then. Now then, young Bultitude, you used to 
be a decent fellow enough last term, though you were coxy. 
So, before we go any further— what do you mean by this sort 
of thing?” 

“Because,” put in Coker, “if you aren’t quite right in your 
head, through your old governor acting like a brute all the holi- 
days, as you said he does, just say so, and we won’t be hard on 
you.” 

“I^ — he— alw^ays an excellent father,” stammered Paul. 
“ What am I to explain?” 

“ Why, what did you go and sneak of Mm for bringing tuck 
back to school for, eh?” demanded Coker. 

“Yes, and sing out when he hacked your shin?” added Coggs; 
“ and tell Grimstone that new fellow was blubbering? Where’s 
th^joke in all that, eh? Where’s the joke?” 

“ You don’t suppose I was bound to sit calmly down and al- 
low you to suck your villainous peppermints under my very 
nose, do you?” said Mr. Bultitude. “Why shouldn’t I com- 
plain if a boy annoys me by sniffing, or kicks me on the an- 
kle? Just tell me that! Suppose my neighbor has a noisy 
dog or a smoky chimney, am I not to venture to tell him of 
it? Is he to ” 

But his arguments, convincing as they promised to be, were 
brought to a sudden and premature close by Coker, who 
slipped behind him and administered a smart jog below his 
back, which jai’red his spine and caused him infinite agony. 

“You little brute!” cried Paul, “I could have you up for as- 
sault for that. An old man like me, too!” 

But upon this Coggs did the very same thing, only harder. 
“Last term you’d have shown fight for much less, Bultitude,” 
they both observed, severely, as some justification for repeating 
the process. 

“Now, perhaps, you’ll drop it for the future,” said Coker. 
“Look here! we’ll give you one more chance. This sneaking 
dodge is all very well for Chawner. Chawner could do that sort 
of thing without getting sat upon, because he’s a big fellow; 
but we’re not going to stand it from you. Will you promise on 
your sacred word of honor, now, to be a decent sort of a chap 
again as you were last term?” 

But Mr. Bultitude, though he longed for peace and quietness, 
dreaded doing or trying anything to favor the impression that he 
was the schoolboy he unluckily api^eared to be, and he had not 


VICE VERSA. 67 

skill and tact enough to dissemble and assuiue a familiar', genial 
tone of equality with these rough boys. 

“ You don’t understand,” he protested feebly. “If I could 
only tell you ” 

“We don’t want any fine language, you know,” said the 
relentless Coggs. “ Yes or no. Will you promise to be your 
old self again?” 

“I only wish I could,” said poor Mr. Bultitude — “but I 
can't!” 

“ Very well, then,” said Coggs, firmly, “we must try the 
torture. Coker, will you screw the back of his hand, while I 
show him how they make barley-sugar ?” 

And he gave Paul an interesting illustration of the latter 
branch of industry by twisting his right arm round and round 
till he nearly wrenched it out of the socket, while Coker seized 
his left hand and pounded it vigorously with the first joint of 
his forefinger, causing the unfortunate Paul to yell for mercy. 

At last he could bear no more, and, breaking away from his 
tormentors with a violent effort, he ran frantically down the 
silent road toward a house which he knew from former visits to 
be Dr. Grimstone s. 

He was but languidly pursued, and, as the distance was 
shoit, he soon gained a gate on the stuccoed posts of which he 
could read “Crichton House,” by the light of a neighboring 
gas-lamp. 

“This is a nice way,” he thought, as he reached it breathless 
and trembling, “ for a father to visit his son’s school!” 

He had hoiDed to reach the sanctuary before the other two 
could overtake him, but he soon discovered that the gate was 
sliut fast, and all his efforts would not bring him within reach of 
the bell-handle — he was too short. 

8o he sat down on the doorstep in resigned despair, and 
waited, for his enemies. Behind the gate was a large, many- 
windowed house, with steps leading up to a portico. In the 
] day ground to his right the school gymnasium, a great gallows- 
like erection, loomed black and giim through the mist, the 
night wind favoring the ghastliness of its appearance by sway- 
ing tlie ropes till they creaked and moaned weirdly on the hooks, 
and the metal stirrups clinked and clashed against one another 
ill irregular cadence. 

He had no time to observe more, as Coker and Coggs joined 
him, and, on finding he had not rung the bell, seized the oc- 
casion to pummel him at their leisure before announcing their 
arrival. 

Then the gate was opened, and the three — the revengeful 
pair assuming an air of lamb-like inoffeusiveuess — entered the 
hall, and were met by Mrs. Grimstone. 


58 


VICE VERSA» 


“Why, here you are!” she said, with an air of surprise, and 
kissing them with real kindness. “ How cold you look! So you 
actually had to Avalk. No cabs as usual. Poor boys! come in 
and warm yourselves. You’ll find all your old friends in the 
schoolroom.” 

Mr. Bultitude submitted to be kissed with some reluctance. 
He was a scrupulously proper and correct old gentleman, and 
inwardly hoped that Dr. Grimstone might never hear of it. 

Mrs. Grim stone, it may be said here, was a stout, fair woman, 
not in the least intellectual or imposing, but with a warm 
heart, and a w ay of talking to and about boys that secured her 
the confidence of mothers more effectually, perhaps, than the 
most polished conversation and irreproachable deportment 
could have done. 

She did not reserve her motherliness for the reception-room, 
either, as some schoolmasters’ wives have a tendency to do, and 
the smallest boy felt less homesick when he saw her. 

She opened a green-baize outer door, and the door beyond it, 
and led them into a long, high room, with desks and forms 
placed against the walls, and a writing table, and line of brown- 
stained tables down the middle. Opposite the windows there 
was a curious structure of shelves partitioned into lockers, and 
filled with rows of shabby school-books. 

The room had been originally intended for a drawing-room, 
as w^as evident from the inevitable white and gold wall-paper 
and the tarnished gilt beading round the doors and window 
shutters; the mantel-piece, too, was of white marble, and the 
gaselier fitted with dingy crystal lusters. 

But sad-colored maps hung on the ink-splashed w^alls, and a 
clock with a blank idiotic face (it is not every clock that posses- 
ses a decently intelligent expression) ticked over the gilt pier- 
glass. The boards w^ere uncarpeted, and stained with patches 
otink of all sizes and ages; while the atmosphere, in spite of 
the blazing fire, had a scholastic blending of soap and water, 
ink, and slate-pencil in its composition, which produced a chill 
and depressing effect. 

On the forms opposite the fire some ten or twelve boys were 
sitting, a few comparing notes as to their holiday experiences 
witii some approach to vivacity. The rest with hands in pock- 
ets and feet stretched toward the blaze, seemed lost in melan- 
choly abstraction. 

“There!” said Mrs. Grimstone, cheerfully, “you’ll have 
plenty to talk to one another about. I’ll send Tom in to see 
you presently!” And she left them with a reassuring nod, 
though the prosiDect of Tom’s company did not perhaps elate 
them as much as it was intended to do. 

Mr. Bultitude felt much as if he had suddenly been dropped 


VICE VERSA. 


59 


down a bear-pit, and, avoiding welcome and observation as well 
as lie could, got away into a corner, from which he observed 
his new companions with uneasy apprehension. 

“I say,” said one boy, resuming the interrupted conversa- 
tion, “ did you go to Drury Lane? Wasn’t it stunning! That 
goose, you know, and the lion in the forest, and all the wooden 
animals lumbering in out of the toy Noah’s Ark!” 

“ Why couldn’t you come to oui party on Twelfth-night?” 
asked another. “ We had great larks. I wish you’d been 
there!” 

“ I had to go to young Skidmore’s instead,” said a pale, spite- 
ful-looking boy, with fair hair carefully parted in the middle. 
“It was like his cheek to ask me, but I thought I’d go, you 
know, just to see what it was like.” 

“ What was it like?” asked one or two near him, languidly. 

“ Oh, awfully slow! They’ve a poky little house in Bromp- 
ton somewhere, and there was no dancing, only boshy games 
and a conjurer, without any presents. And, oh! I say, at 
sui3per there was a big cake on the table, and no one was al- 
lowed to cut it, because it was hired. They’re so poor, you 
know. Skidmore’s pater is only a clerk, and you should "see 
his sisters!” 

“Why, are they pretty?” 

' “ Pretty! they’re just like young Skidmore — only uglier; and 
just fancy, his mother asked me, ‘ if I was Skidmore’s favorite 
companion, and if he helped me in my studies?’ ” 

The unfortunate Skidmore, when he returned, soon found 
reason to regret his rash hospitality, for he never heard the last 
of the cake (which had, as it happened, been paid for in the 
usual manner) during the rest of the term. 

There was a slight laugh at the enormity of Mrs. Skidmore’s 
presumption, and then a long pause, after which some one asked 
suddenly, “Does any one know whether Chawner really has left 
this time?” 

“ I hope so,” said a big, heavy boy, and his hope seemed 
echoed with a general fervor. “ He’s been going to leave every 
term for the last year, but I believe he really has done it this 
time. He wrote and told me he wasn’t coming back.” 

“ Thank goodness!” said several, with an evident relief, and 
some one was observing that they had had enough of the sneak- 
ing business, when a fly was heard to drive up, and the bell 
rang, whereupon every one abandoned his easy attitude, and 
seemed to brace himself up for a trying encounter. 

“Lookout — here’s Grimstone!” they whispered under their 
breaths, as voices and footsteps were heard in the hall outside. 

Presently the door of the schoolroom opened, and another 
boy entered the room. Dr. Grimstone, it appeared, had not 


60 


VICE VEESA. 


been tbe occupant of the fly, after all. The new-comer was a 
tall, narrow-shouldered, stooping fellow, with a sallow, un- 
wholesome complexion, thin lips, and small, sunken brown 
eyes. His cheeks were creased with a dimpling subsinile, half 
uneasy, half malicious, and his tread was mincing and catlike. 

“Well, yon fellows?'’ he said. 

Ail rose at once, and shook hands effusively. “Why, Chaw- 
nerl” they cried, “ how are you, old fellow? We thought you 
weren’t coming l3ack!” 

There was a heartiness in their manner somewhat at variance 
with their recent expressions of opinion; but they had doubtless 
excellent reasons for any inconsistency. 

“ Well,” said Chawner, in a low, soft voice, which had a sug- 
gestion of feminine spitefulness, “ I was going to leave, but I 
thought you’d be getting into mischief here without me to w'atcli 
over you. Appleton, and Lench, and Coker want looking after 
badly, I know. So, you see, I’ve come back after all.” 

He laughed with a little malevolent cackle as he spoke, and 
the three boys named laughed too, though with no great hearti- 
ness, and shifting the while uneasily on their seats. 

After this sally the conversation languished until Tom Grim- 
fitone’s appearance. He strolled in with a semi-professional air, 
and shook hands with affability. 

Tom was a short, flabby, sandy-haired youth, not particularly 
loved of his comrades, and his first remark was, “I say, you 
chaps, have you done your holiday task? Pa says he shall keep 
every one in who hasn’t. I’ve done mine;” which, as a contri- 
bution to the general liveliness, was a distinct failure. 

Needless to say, the work imposed as a holiday occupation 
had been first deferred, then forgotten, then remembered too 
late, and recklessly defied with the confidence begotten in a 
home atmosphere. 

Amid a general silence Chawner happened to see Mr. Bulti- 
tude in his corner, and crossed over to him. “ Why, there’s 
Dicky Bultitude there all the time, and he never came to shake 
hands! Aren’t you going to speak to me?” 

Paul growled something indistinctly, feeling strangely uncom- 
fortable and confused. 

“ What’s the matter with him?” asked Chawner. “ Does any 
one know? Has he lost his tongue?” 

“ He hadn’t lost it coming down in the train,” said Coker; 

“ I wish he had. I tell you what, you fellows He — here’s 

Grim at last! I’ll tell you all about it up in the bedroom.” 

And Dr. Grimstone really did arrive at this point, much to 
Paul’s relief, and looked in to give a grip of the hand and a few 
words to those of the boys he had not seen. 

Biddlecomb, Tipping, and the rest, came in with him, and 


VICE VERSA. 


61 


the schoolroom soon filled with others arriving by later trains, 
among the later coiners being the two house-masters, Mr. Blink- 
horn and Mr. Tinkler; and there followed a season of bustle and 
conversation, wliich lasted until the doctor touched a small 
hand-bell, and ordered them to sit down round the tables while 
supper was brought in. 

Mr. Bultitude was not sorry to hear the word “ supper.” He 
was faint and dispirited, and, although he had dined not very 
long since, thought that perhaps a little cold beef and beer, or 
some warmed-up trifle, might give him courage to tell his mis- 
fortunes before bedtime. 

Of one thing he felt certain. Nothing should induce him to 
trust his person in a bedroom with any of those violent and vin- 
dictive boys; whether he succeeded in declaring himself that 
niglit or not, he would at least insist on a separate bedroom. 
Meantime he looked forward to sui^iJer as likely to restore geni- 
ality and confidence. 

But the sujiper announced so imposingly proved to consist of 
nothing more than two plates piled with small pie'ces of thinly- 
buttered bread, which a page handed round together with tum- 
blers of Water; and Paul, in his disappointment, refused this re- 
freshment with more firmness than politeness, as Dr. Grimstone 
observed. 

“You got into trouble last term, Bultitude,” he said, sternly, 
“on account of this same fastidious daintiness. Your excellent 
father has informed’ me of your waste and gluttony at his own 
bountifully spread table. Don’t let me have accasion to reprove 
you for this again.” 

Mr. Bultitude, feeling the necessity of propitiating him, hast- 
ened to take the two largest squares of bread and butter on the 
plate. They w^ere moist and thick, and he had considerable 
difficulty in disposing of them, besides the gratification of hear- 
ing himself described as a “pig” by his neighbors, who re- 
proved him with a refreshing candor. 

“I must get away from here,” he thought, ruefully. “Dick 
seems very unpopular. I wish I dTdn’t feel so low spirited and 
unwell. Why can’t I carry it off easily, as — as a kind of joke? 
How hard these forms are, and how those infernal boys did jog 
my back!” 

Bedtime came at length. The boys filed, one by one, out of 
the room, and the doctor stood by the door to shake hands with 
them as they passed. 

Mr. Bultitude lingered until the otheis luid gone, for he had 
made up his mind to seize this opportunity to open the doctor’s 
eyes to the mistake lie was making. But he felt unaccountably 
nervous; the diplomatic and well choSen introductio i he had 
carefully preiiared had left him at the critical moment; all power 


62 


VICE VERSA. 


of thought was gone with it, and he went tremblingly up to the 
sohoohmaster, feeling hopelessly at the mercy of anything that 
chose to come out of his mouth. 

“Dr. Grimstone,” he began; “before retiring I — 1 must in- 
sist — I mean I must request^ What I wish to say is ” 

“I see,” said the doctor, catching him up sharply. “You 
wish to apologize for your extraordinary behavior in the railway 
carriage? Well, though you made some amends afterward, an 
apology is very right and proper. Say no more ajout it.” 

“It’s not that,” said Paul hopelessly; “I wanted to ex- 
plain ” 

“ Your conduct with regard to the bread and butter. If it was 
simply want of appetite, of course there is no more to be said. 
But I have an abhorrence of ” 

“ Quite right,” said Paul, recovering himself. “ I hate waste 
myself, but there is something I must tell you before ” 

“ If it concerns that disgraceful conduct of Coker’s,” said the 
doctor, “you may speak on. I shall have to consider his case 
to-morrow. Has any similar case of disobedience come to your 
knowledge ? If so, I expect you to disclose it to me. You have 
found some other boy with sweatmeats in his possession?” 

“ Good heavens, sir!” said Mr. Bultitude, losing his temper; 
“I haven’t been searching the whole school for sweetmeats! I 
have other things to occupy my mind, sir. And, once for all, I 
demand to be heard! Dr. Grimstone, there are — ahem! domes- 
tic secrets that can only be alluded to in the strictest privacy. I 
see that one of your assistants is writing at his table there. Can 
not we go where there will be less risk of interruption? You 
have a study, I suppose?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the doctor, with terrible grimness, “I have a 
study — and I have a cane! I can convince you of both facts, if 
you wish it. If you insult me again by this brazen buffoonery, 
I will. Be off’ to your dormitory, sir, before you provoke me to 
punish you. Not another word! Go!” 

And, incredible as it may appear to all who have never been 
in his position, Mr. Bultitude went. It was almost an abdica- 
tion, it was treachery to his true self; he knew the vital impor- 
tance of firmness at this crisis. But, nevertheless, his courage 
gave way ail at once, and he crawled up the bare, uncarpeted 
stairs without any further protest. 

“ Good-night, Master Bultitude,” said a housemaid, meeting 
him on the staircase; “you know your bedroom — No. 6, with 
Master Coker, and Master Biddlecomb, and the others.” 

Paul dragged himself up to the highest landing-stage, and, 
with a sick foreboding, opened the door on which the figure 6 
was painted. 

It was a large, bare, plainly-papered room, with several cur- 


VICE VERSA. 


63 


tainless windows, the blinds of which were drawn, a long, deal 
stand of wash-hand basins, and eight little white beds against 
the walls. 

A fire was lighted in consideration of its being the first night, 
and several boys were talking excitedly round it. 

“Here he is! He’s stayed behind to tell more tales!” they 
cried, as Paul entered nervously. “Now then, Bultitude, what 
have you got to say for yourself?” 

Mr. Bultitude felt powerless among all these young wolves. 
He had no knowledge of boys, nor any notion of acquiring an 
influence over them, having hitherto regarded them as necessary 
nuisances, to be rather repressed than studied. He could only 
stare hopelessly at them in fascinated silence. 

“You see he hasn’t a word to say for himself!” said Tipping. 
“ Look here, what shall we do to him? Shall we try tossing in 
a blanket? I’ve never tried tossing a fellow in one myself, but 
as long as you don’t jerk him too high, or out on the floor, you 
can’t hurt him dangerously.” 

“No, I say, don’t toss him in a blanket,” pleaded Biddle- 
comb, and Paul felt gratefully toward him at ‘the words; “any 
one coming up would see what was going on. I vote we flick 
at him with towels.” 

“ Now just you understand this clearly,” said Paul, thinking, 
not without reason, that this course of treatment was likely to 
prove painful; “I refuse to allow myself to be flicked at with 
towels. No one has ever offered me such an indignity in my 
life! Oh! do you think I’ve not enough On my mind as it is 
without the barbarities of a set of young brutes like you?” 

As this appeal was not of a very conciliatory nature, they at 
once proceeded to form a circle round him and, judging their 
distance with great accuracy, jerked towels at his person with 
such 4i3.holical dexterity that the wet corners cut him at all 
points like so many fine thongs, and he spun round like a top, 
dancing and, I regret to add, swearing violently at the pain. 

When he was worked up almost to frenzy pitch, Biddlecomb’s 
sweet low voice cried : 

“ Gave, you fellows! I hear Grim. Let him undress now, and 
we can lam it into him afterward with slippers!” 

At this they all cast off such of their clothes as they still wore, 
and slipped modestly and peacefully into bed just as Dr. Grim- 
stone’s large form appeared at the doorway. Mr. Bultitude 
made as much haste as he could, but did not escape a reprimand 
from the doctor as he turned the gas out; and, as soon as he had 
made the round of the bedrooms and his heavy tread had died 
away down the staircase, the light-hearted occupants of No. 6 
‘ ‘ lammed ” it into the unhappy Paul until they were tired of 


64 


VICE VEESA. 


the exercise, and left him to creep, sore and trembling with rage 
and fright, into his cold, hard bed. 

Then, after a little desultory conversation, one by one sank from 
incoherence into silence, and rose from silence to snores, while 
Paul alone lay sleepless, listening to the creeping tinkle of the 
dying fire, drearily wondering at the marvelous change that had 
come over his life and fortunes in the last few hours, and fever- 
ishly composing impassioned appeals which were to touch the 
doctor’s heart and convince his reason. 


CHAPTER Y. 

DISGUACE. 

“ Well had* the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day’s disasters in his morning’s face.” 

» 

Sleep came at last, and brought, too, brief forgetfulness. It 
was not till the dull gray light of morning was glimmering 
through the blinds that Mr. Bultitude awoke to his troubles. 

The room was bitterly" cold, and he remained shivering in bed 
for some time, trying to realize and prepare for his altered con- 
dition. 

He was the only one awake. Now and then from one of the 
beds around a boy would be heard talking in his sleep, or 
laughing with holiday glee — at the drolleries possibly of some 
pantomime performed for his amusement in the Theater Royal, 
Dreamland — a theater mercifully open to all boys free of charge, 
long after the holidays have come to an end, the only drawbacks 
being a certain want of definiteness in the plot and scenery, 
and a liability to premature termination of the vaguely splen- 
did performance. 

Once Kiffin, the new boy, awoke with a start and a heavy 
sigh, but he cried himself to sleep again almost immediately. 

Mr. Bultitude could bear being inactive no longer. He 
thought, if he got up, he might perhaps see his misfortunes 
shrink to a more bearable, less hopeless scale, and besides, he 
judged it prudent, for many reasons, to finish his toilet before 
the sleepers began theirs. 

Very stealthily, dreading to rouse any one and attract atten- 
tion in the form of slippers, he broke the clinking crust of ice 
in one of the basins, and, shuddering from the shock, bathed 


VICE VERSA. 


65 


face and bands in tlie biting water. He parted bis bair, which 
from natural causes be bad been unable to accomplish for some 
years, and now found an awkwardness in accomplishing neatly, 
and then stole down the dark, creaking staircase just as the but- 
ler in the ball began to swing the big railway bell which was to 
din stern reality into the sleepy eai-s above. 

In the schoolroom a yawning maid bad just lighted the fire, 
from which turbid yellow clouds of sulphurous smoke were 
pouring into the room, making it necessary to open the windows 
and lower a temperature that was far from high originally. 

Paul stood shaking by the mantel -piece in a very bad temper 
for some minutes. If the doctor had come in then, he might 
have been spurred by indignation to utter his woes, and even 
claim and obtain his freedom. But that was not to be. 

The door did open presently, however, and a little girl ap- 
peared; a very charming little maiden indeed, in a neat, dark 
costume relieved by a fresh white pinafore. She had deep gray 
eyes and glossy brown hair falling over her forehead and down 
her back in soft straight masses, her face was oval rather than 
round, and slightly serious, though her smile was pretty and 
gay. 

She ran toward Mr. Bultitude with a glad little cry, stretching 
out her pretty hands. 

“ Dick! dear Dick!” she said, ** I am so glad! I thought you’d 
be down early, as you used to be. I wanted to sit up last night 
so very much, but mamma wouldn’t let me.” 

Some old gentlemen might have been vei;y glad to be wel- 
comed in this way, even vicariously, and have seized the oppor- 
tunity to pet and pay court to her. As for boys, it must have 
been a very bad school indeed which Dulcie Grimstone could 
not have robbed of much of its terrors. 

Mr. Bultitude, however, as has been explained, did not appre- 
ciate children — being a family man himself. When one sees 
their petty squabbles and jealousies, hears their cruel din, and 
pays for their monkeyish mischief, perhaps the daintiest chil- 
dren seem but an earthly order of cherubim. He was only an- 
noyed and embarrassed by the interruption, though he en- 
dured it- 

“ Ah,” he said, with condescension, “and so you’re Dr. Grim- 
stone’s little girl, are you? How d’ye do, my dear?” 

Dulcie stopped and looked at him, with drawn eyebrows, and 
her soft mouth quivering. 

“What makes you talk like that?” she asked. 

“ How ought I to talk?” said Paul. 

“ You didn’t talk like that before,” said Dulcie, plaintively. 
“I — I thought perhaps you’d be glad to see me. You were 
once. And — and — when you went away last you asked me to — • 


66 


VICE VERSA 


to — kiss yon, and I did, and I wish I hadn’t. And you gave me 
a ginger lozenge with your name written on it in lead pencil, 
and I gave you a cough-lozenge with mine; and you said it was 
to show that you were my sweetheart and I was yours. But I 
suppose you’ve eaten the one I gave you?” 

“ This is dreadful!” thought Mr. Bultitude. “What shall I 
do now? The child evidently takes me for that little scoundrel 
Dick.” “Tut-tut,” he said aloud, “little girls like you are too 
young for such nonsense. You ought to think about — about 
your dolls, and — ah, your needlew^ork — not sweethearts!” 

“You say that now!” cried Dulcie indignantly. “You know 
I’m not a little girl, and I’ve left off playing Avith dolls — almost. 
Oh, Dick, don’t be unkind ! You haven’t changed your mind, 
have you?” 

“No,” said Paul, dismally, “I’ve changed my body. But 
there — you wouldn’t understand. Bun aw^ay and play some- 
where, like a good little girl!” 

“I know what it is!” said Dulcie. “ You’ve been out to par- 
ties, or somewhere, and seen some horrid girl — you like — better 
than me!” 

“ This is absurd, you know,” said Mr. Bultitude. “You can’t 
think how absurd it is! Now, you’ll be a very foolish little girl 
if you cry. You’re making a mistake. I’m not the Dick you 
used to know!” 

“I know you’re not!” sobbed Dulcie. “But oh, Dick, you 
will be. Promise me you will be!” And, to Paul’s horror and 
alarm, she put her ^rms round his neck, and cried piteously on 
his shoulder. 

“ Good gracious!” he cried, “let me go. Don’t do that, for 
heaven’s sake! I can hear some one coming. If it’s your father 
it will ruin me!” 

But it was too late. Over her head he saw Tipping enter the 
room, and stand glaring at them menacingly. Dulcie saw him 
too, and sprang away to the wdndoAV, where she tried to dry her 
eyes unperceived, and then ran past him Avith a hurried good- 
morning, and escaped, leaving Paul alone with the formidable 
\ Tipping. 

There was an awkward silence at first, which Tipping broke 
by saying, “What have you been saying to make her cry, eh ?” 

“What’s that to you, sir?” said Paul, trying to keep his voice 
firm. 

“Why, it’s just this to me,” said Tipping, “that I’ve been 
spoons on Dulcie myself ever since I came, and she neA^er v/ould 
have a Avord to say to me. I noA^er could think why, and iioav 
it turns out to be you! What do you mean by cutting me out 
like this? I heard her call you ‘ dear Dick.’ ” 

“Don’t be an ass, sir !” said Paul, angrily. 


VICE VERSA. 


67 


“Now, none of your cheek, you know!” said Tipping, edging 
up against him with a dangerous inclination to first jostle ag- 
gressively, and then maul his unconscious rival. “You just 
mind what I say. I’m not going to have Dulcie bothered by a 
young beggar in the second form; she deserves something better 
than that, anyway, and I tell you that if I once catch you talk- 
ing to her in the way you did just now, or if 1 hear of her favor- 
ing you more than any other fellow. I’ll give you the very best 
licking you ever had in your life. So look out!”* 

At this point the other boys began to straggle down and clus- 
ter round the fire, and Paul withdrew from the aggrieved Tip- 
ping, and looked drearily out of the window on the hard road 
and bare black trees outside. 

“I must tell the doctor how I’m situated !” he thought; “and 
yet, directly I open my mouth, he threatens to flog me. If I 
stay here that little girl will be always trying to speak to me, 
and I shall be thrashed by the red-haired boy. If I could only 
manage to speak out after breakfast.” 

It was not without satisfaction* that he remembered that he 
paid extra for “meat for breakfast ” in his son’s school-bills for 
he was beginning to look forward to meal-time with the natural 
desire of a young and healthy frame for nourishment. 

At eight o’clock the doctor came in and announced breakfast, 
leading the way himself to what was known in the school as the 
“ Dining Hall.” It scarcely deserved so high-sounding a name, 
perhaps, being a long, low room on the basement floor, with a 
big fireplace, fitted with taps and baking ovens, which pro- 
voked the suspicion that it had begun existence as a back 
kitchen. 

The doctor took his seat alone at a cross table forming 
the top of one of the two rows of tables, set with white cups 
and saucers, and plates well heaped with the square pieces of 
bread and butter, while Mrs. Grimstone, with Dulcie and Tom, 
sat at the foot of the same row, behind two ugly urns of dull 
block- tin. 

But when Mr. Bultitude, more hungry than he had felt for 
years, found his place at one of the tables, he was disgusted to 
find upon his plate — not, as he had confidently expected, a 
couple of plump poached eggs, with their appetizing contrast 
of ruddy gold and silvery white, not a crisp and crackling sau- 
sage or a mottled omelette, not even the homely but luscious 
rasher, but a brace of chill, forbidding sardines, floating grim 
and headless in bilious green oil! 

It was a fish he positively loathed, nor could it be reasonably 
expected that the confidence necessary for a declaration was to 
be begotten by so sepulchral a form of nutriment. 

He roused himself, however, to swallow them, together with 


68 


VICE VERSA. 


some of the thin and tin-flavored coffee. But the meal as a 
whole was so different from the plentiful, well-cooked breakfasts 
he had sat down before for years, as a matter of course, that it 
made him feel extremely unwell. 

No talking was allowed during the meal. The doctor now 
and then looked up from his dish of kidneys on toast (at which 
envious glances were occasionally cast) to address a casual re- 
mark to his wife across the long row of plates and cups, but, as 
a rule, the dull, champing sound of boys solemnly and steadily 
munching was all that broke the silence. 

Toward the end, when the plates had been generally cleared, i 
and the boys sat staring with the stolidity of repletion at one 
another across the tables, the junior house-master, Mr. Tinkler, 
made his appearance. He had lately left a small and little 
known college at Cambridge, where he had contrived, contrary 
to expectation, to evade the uncoveted wooden spoon by just 
two places, which enabled the doctor to announce himself as 
being “assisted by a graduate of the University of Cambridge 
who has taken honors in the Mathematical Tripos.” 

For the rest, he was a small, insignificant-looking person, 
who evidently disliked the notice his late appearance drew upon 
himself. 

“Mr. Tinkler,” said the doctor in his most awful voice, “if 
it were my custom to rebuke my assistants before the school 
(which it is not), I should feel forced to remind you that this 
tardiness in rising is a bad beginning of the day’s work, and sets 
a bad example to those under your authoritv.” 

Mr. Tinkler made no articulate reply, but sat down with a 
crushed expression, and set himself to devour bread and butter 
with an energy which he hoped would divert attention from his 
blushes; and almost immediately the doctor looked at his watch, 
and said, “ Now, boys, you have half-an-hour for ‘chevy’— 
make the most of it. When you come in I shall have something 
to say to you all. Don’t rise, Mr. Tinkler, unlbss you have 
quite finished.” 

Mr. Tinkler preferred leaving his breakfast to continuing it 
under the trying ordeal of his principal’s inspection. So, 
hastily murmuring that he had “ made an excellent breakfast ” 

^yhich he had not — he followed the others, who clattered up- 
stairs to put on their boots and go out into the playground. 

^ It was noticeable that they did so without much of the enthu- 
siasm which might be looked for from boys dismissed to their 
sports. But the fact was that this particular sport “ chevy,” 
commonly known as “prisoners’ base, ’’was by no means a popu- 
lar amusement, being of a somewhat monotonous nature, and 
calling for no special skill on the part of the performers. Be- 
sides this, moreover, it had the additional disadvantage (which 


VICE VERSA, 


69 


would have been fatal to a far more fascinating diversion) of 
being in a great measure compulsory. 

Football and cricket were' of course reserved for half-holidays, 
and played in a neighboring field rented by the doctor, and in 
the playground he restricted them to ‘‘chevy,” which he con- 
sidered, rightly enough, both gave them abundant exercise and 
kept them out of mischief. Accordingly, if any adventurous 
spirit started a rival game, it was usually abandoned sooner or 
later in deference to suggestions from headquarters which were 
not intended to be disregarded. 

This, though undoubtedly well meant, did not serve to stimu- 
late their affection for the game, an excellent one in moderation, 
but one which, if played “ by special desire ” two or three 
hours a day for weeks in succession, is apt to lose its freshness 
and pall upon the youthful mind. 

It was a bright morning. There had been a hard frost during 
the night, and the ground was hard, sparkling with rime and 
ringing to the foot. The air was keen and invigorating, and the 
bare, black branches of the trees were outlined clear and sharp 
against the pale, pure blue of the morning sky. 

Just the weather for a long day’s skating over the dark-green 
glassy ice, or a bracing tramp on country roads into cheery, 
red-roofed market towns. But now it had lost all power to 
charm. It was only depressing by the contrast between the 
boundless liberty suggested and the dull reality of a round of 
uninteresting work which was all it heralded. 

. So they lounged listlessly about, gravitating finally toward 
the end of the playground, where a deep furrow marked the 
line of the base. There was no attempt to play. They stood 
gossiping in knots, grumbling and stamping their feet to keep 
warm. By and by the day-boarders began to drop in one by 
one, several of them, from a want of tact in adapting themselves 
to the general tone, earning decided unpopularity at once by a 
cheerful briskness, and an undisguised satisfaction at having 
something definite to do oncC more. 

If Mr. Tinkler, who had joined one of the groups, had not 
particularly distinguished himself at breakfast, he made ample 
amends now, and by the grandeur and manliness of his conver- 
sation succeeded in producing a decided impression upon some 
of the smaller boys. 

“ The bore of a place like this, you know,” he was saying, 
with magnificent disdain, “ is that a fellow can’t have his pipe 
of a morning. I'ye been used to it, and so, of course, I miss it. 
If I chose to insist on it, Grimstone couldn’t say anything; but 
wdth a lot of young fellows like you, y*ou see, it wouldn’t look 
well!” 

It could hardly have looked worse than little Mr. Tinkler him- 


70 


VICE VERSA. 


self wotild have done, if he had ventured upon more than the 
mildest of cigarettes, for he was a poor but pertinacious smoker, 
and his love for the weed was chastened by wholesome fear. 
There, however, he was in no danger of betraying this, and, 
indeed, it would have been injudicious to admit it. 

“ Talking of smoking,” he went on, w.th a soft chuckle, as at 
recollections of unspeakable devilry, “did I ever tell you chaps 
of a tremendous scrape I very nearly got into up at the ’Var- 
sity? Well, you must know there’s a foolish rule there against 
smoking in the streets. Not that that made any difference to 
some of us! Well, one night about nine, I was strolling down 
Petty Cury with two other men, smoking (Bosher of ‘Pot- 
house,’ and Peebles of ‘Cats,’ both pretty well known up there 
for general rowdiness, you know — dear old friends of mine!), 
and, just as we turned the corner, who should we see coming 
straight down on us but a proctor with his bull-dogs (not dogs, 
you know, but the strongest ‘ gyps ’ in college). Bosher said 
‘Let’s cut it!’ and he and Peebles bolted. (They were neither 
of them funks, of course, but they lost their heads.) I went 
calmly on, smoking my cigar as if nothing was the matter. 
That put the proctor in a bait, I can tell you! He came fuming 
up to me. ‘What do you mean, sir,’ says he, quite pale with 
anger (he was a great, bull-headed fello-w, one of the strongest 
dons of his year, that’s why they made him a proctor) — ‘ what 
do you mean by breaking the University statutes in this way?’ 
‘It is a fine evening,’ said I (I was determined to keep cool). 
‘Do you mean to insult me?’ said he. ‘ No, old boy,’ said I, 
‘I don’t; have a cigar?’ He couldn’t stand that, so he called 
up his bull dogs. ‘I give him in charge!’ he screamed out. 
‘I’ll have him sent down!’ ‘Ill send you down first,’ said I, 
and I just gave him a push — I never meant to hurt the fellow — 
and over he went. I rolled over a bull-dog to keep him com- 
pany, and, as the other fellow didn’t want any more, and stood 
aside to let me pass, 1 finished my stroll and my cigar.” 

“ Was the proctor hurt, sir?” inquired a small boy, with great 
respect. 

“More frightened than hurt, I always said,” said Mr. Tink- 
ler, lightly, “but somehow he never would proctorize any 
more — it spoilt his nerve. He was a good deal chaffed about it, 
but, of course, no one ever knew I’d had anything to do with it!” 

With such tales of Homeric exploit did Mr. Tinkler incul- 
cate a spirit of discipline and respect for authority. But 
although he had, indeed, once encountered a proctor, and at 
night, he did himself great injustice by this version of the pro- 
ceedings, which were, aa a matter of fact, of a most peaceable 
and law-abiding character, and, though followed by a pecuniary 
transaction the next day in which six-and-eightpence changed 


VICE VERSA. 


71 


pockets, the proctors continued their duties much as before, 
while Mr. Tinkler’s feelings toward them, which had ever been 
reverential in the extreme, were, if anything, intensified by the 
experience. 

Upon this incident, however, he had gradually embroidered 
the above exciting episode, until he grew to believe at intervals 
that he really had been a devil of a fellow in his time, which, to 
do him justice, was far from the case. 

He might have gone on still further to calumniate himself, 
and excite general envy and admiration thereby, if at that 
moment Dr. Grimstone had not happened to appear at the head 
of the cast-iron staircase that led down into the playground; 
whereupon Mr. Tinkler affected to be intensely interested in the 
game, which, as a kind of involuntary compliment to the princi- 
jjal, about this time was galvanized into a sort of vigor. 

But the doctor, after frowning gloomily down ujDon them for 
a minute or so, suddenly called “All in!” 

He had several tV'ays of saying this. Sometimes he would do 
so in a half-regretful tone, as one himself obeying the call of 
duty; sometimes he would appear for some minutes, a benignant 
spectator, upon the balcony, and summon them to work at 
length with a lenient pity — for he was by no means a hard- 
hearted man; but at other times he w'ould step sharply and sud- 
denly out and shout the word of command with a grim and 
ominous expression. On these last occasions the school gener- 
ally prepared itself for a rather formidable quarter of an hour. 

This was the case now, and, as a further portent, Mr. Blink- 
horn was observed to come down and, after a few words with 
Mr. Tinkler, withdraw .with him through the school gate. 

“He’s sent them out for a walk,” said Siggers, who was 
skilled in omens. “It’s a row!” 

Bows at Crichton House, although periodical, and therefore 
things to be forearmed against in some degree, were serious 
matters. Dr. Grimstone w'as a quick-tempered man, with a 
copious flow of words and a taste for indulging it. He w'as also 
strongly prejudiced against many breaches of discipline which 
others might have considered trifling, and whenever he had dis- 
covered any such breach he could not rest until by all the means 
in his power he had ascertained exactly how many were imiDli- 
cated in the ofifense, and to what extent. 

His usual method of doing this was to summon the school 
formally together and deliver an elaborate harangue, during 
which he worked himself by degi’ees into such a state of indig- 
nation that his hearers were most of them terrified out of their 
senses, and very often conscience-stricken offenders would give 
themselves up as hopelessly detected and reveal transgressions 
altogether unsuspected by him— much as a net brings up fish of 


72 VICE VERSA. 

all degrees of merit, or as heavy firing will raise drowned corpses 
to the surface. 

Paul naturally knew nothing of this peculiarity; he had kept 
himself as usual apart from the others, and was now trying to 
compel himself to brave the terrors of an avowal at the first op- 
portunity. He followed the others up the steps with an un- 
easy wonder whether, after all, he would not find himself igno- 
miniously set down to learn lessons. 

The boys filed into the schoolroom in solemn silence, and 
took their seats at the desks along the brown tables. The doc- 
tor was there before them, standing up with one elbow resting 
upon a reading-stand, and with a suggestion of coming thunder 
in his look and attitude that, combined with the oppressive 
silence, made some of the boys feel positively ill. 

Presently he began. He said that, since they had come to- 
gether again, he had made a discovery concerning one among 
them which, astounding as it was to him, an4 painful as he felt 
it to be compelled to make it known, concerned them all to be 
aware of. 

Mr. Bultitude could scarcely believe his ears. His secret was 
discovered, then; the injury done him by Dick about to be re- 
paired, and open restitution and apology offered him! It was 
not perhaps precisely delicate on the doctor’s part to make so 
public an affair of it, but, so long as it ended well, he could af- 
ford to overlook that. 

So he settled him§elf comfortably on a form with his back 
against a desk and his legs crossed, his expression indicating 
plainly that he knew what was coming, and, on the whole, ap- 
proved of it. 

“ Ever since I have devoted myself to the cause of tuition,” 
continued the doctor, “ I have made it my object to provide 
boys under my roof with fare so abundant and so palatable that 
they should have no excuse for obtaining extraneous luxuries. 
I have presided myself at their meals, I have superintended 
their very sports with a fatherly eye ” 

Here he paused, and fixed one or two of tho'se nearest hini 
with the fatherly eye in such a manner that they writhed with 
confusion. 

“ He’s wandering from the point,” thought Paul, a little puz- 
zled. 

“ I have done all this on one understanding — that the robust- 
ness of your constitutions, acquired by the plain, simple, but 
abundant regimen of my table, shall not be tampered with by 
the indulgence in any of the immpering products of confection- 
ery. They are absolutely and unconditionally prohibited — as 
every boy who hears me now knows perfectly well! 

“ And yet ” (here he began gradually to relax his self-restraint 


VICE VERSA. 


73 


and lash himself into a frenzy of indignation), ‘‘ what do I find? 
There are some natures so essentially base, so ipcapable of' being 
affected by kindness, so dead to honor and generosity, that they 
will not scruple to conspire or .set themselves individually to 
escape and bafile the wise precautions undertaken for their bene- 
fit. I will not name the dastards at present — they themselves 
can look into their hearts and see their guilt reflected there 

At this every boy, beginning to see the tendency of his denun- 
ciations, tried hard to assume an air of conscious innocence and 
grieved interest, the majority achieving conspicuous failure. 

“ I do not like to think,” said Dr. Grimstone, “ that the evil ' 
has a wider existence than I yet know of. It may be so ; noth- 
ing will surprise me now. There may be some before me trem- 
bling with the consciousness of secret guilt. If so, let those 
boys make the only reparation in their power, and give them- 
selves up in an honorable and straightforward manner!” 

To this invitation, which indeed resembled that of the duck- 
destroying Mrs. Bond, no one made any response. They had 
grown too wary, and now preferred to play a waiting game. 

“ Then let the being — for I will not call him boy — who is 
known to me, step forth and confess his fault publicly, and sue 
for pardon!” thundered the doctor, now warmed to his theme. 

But the being declined from a feeling of modesty, and a faint 
hope that somebody else might, after all, be the j^ersoii aimed at. 

“Then I name him!” stormed Dr. Grimstone; “Cornelius 
Coggs — stand up!” 

Coggs half rose in a limp manner, whimpering feebly, “Me, 
sir? Oh, please, sir — no, not me, sir!” 

“Yes, you, sir, and let your companions regard you with the 
contempt and abhorrence you so richly merit!” Here, needless 
to say, the whole school glared at poor Coggs with as much vir- 
tuous indignation as they could summon up at such short no- 
tice; for contempt is very infectious when communicated from 
high quarters. 

“So, Coggs,” said the doctor, with a slow and withering scorn, 

“ so you thought to defy me ; to smuggle compressed illness 
and concentrated unhealthiness into this school with impunity? 
Y'ou flattered yourself that, after I had once confiscated your 
contraband poisons, you would hear no more of it! You de- 
ceived yourself, sir! I tell you, once for all, that I will not al- 
low you to contaminate your innocent schoolmates with your 
gifts of surreptitious sweetmeats ; they shall not be perverted 
with your pernicious peppermints, sir ; you shall not deprave 
them by the subtle and insidious jujube, or by tlie cheap but 
cloying Turkish Delight! I will not expose myself or them to 
the inroads of disease invited here by a hypocritical inmate of 
my walls! The traitor shall have his reward!” 


74 


VICE VERSA. 


All of which simply meant that the doctor, having once had a 
small boy taken seriously ill from the effects of over-eating him- 
self, was naturally anxious to avoid such an inconvenience for 
the future. “ Thanks to the fearless honesty of a youth,” con- 
tinued the doctor, “who, in an eccentric manner certainly, but 
with, I do not doubt, the best of motives, opened my eyes to the 
fell evil, I am enabled to cope with it at its birth. Kichard Bul- 
titude, I take this occasion of publicly thanking and commend- 
ing you; your conduct was noble!” 

Mr. Bnltitude was too angry and disappointed to speak. He 
had thought his path was going to be made smooth, and now rdl 
this ridiculous fuss Avas being made about a few peppermint loz- 
enges. He Avished he had never mentioned them. It Avas not 
the last time he breathed that wish. 

“As for you, Coggs,” said the doctor, suddenly producing a 
little brown cane, “ I shall make a public example of you.” 

Coggs stared idiotically and protested, but after a short and 
painful scene was sent off up to his bedroom, yelping like a 
kicked puppy. 

“ One Avord more,” said the doctor, now almost calm again. 
“ I knoAv that you all think with me in your horror of the treacli- 
ery I have just exposed. I know that you would scorn to par- 
ticipate in it.” (A thrill and murmur, expressive of intense hor- 
ror and scorn, Avent round the benches.) “You are anxious to 
prove that you do so beyond a doubt.” (Again a murmur of 
assent.) “I give you all that opportunity. I have implicit 
trust and confidence in you — let every boarder go doAvn into the 
box-room and fetch up his playbox, just as it is, and oijen it 
here before me. ” 

There Avas a general fall of jaws at this very unexpected con- 
clusion; but, contriving to overcome their dismay, they Avent 
outside and down through the play-ground into the box-ioom, 
Paul among the rest, and, amid universal confusion, e\’ery one 
opened his box, and, with a consideration especially laudable in 
heedless boyhood, thoughtfully and carefully removed from it 
all such dainties as might be calculated to shock or pain their 
preceptor. 

Mr. Bultitude found a key which was labeled “ play-box,” and 
began to open a box which bore Dick’s initials cut upon the lid; 
Avithout any apprehensions, however, for he had given too strict 
orders to his daughter to fear that any luxuries Avould be con- 
cealed there. 

But no sooner had he raised the lid than he staggered back 
with disgust. It Avas crammed Avith cakes, butter-scotch, hard- 
bake, pots of jam, and even a bottle of ginger wine — enough to 
compromise a chameleon! 


VICE VERSA. 


.75 

He set himself to pitch them all out as soon as possible with 
feverish haste, but Tipping was too quick for him. 

“ Hallo!’' he cried; “ oh, I say, you fellows, come here! Just 
look at this! Here’s this im23udent young beggar, who sneaked 
of i^oor old Coggs for sucking jujubes, and very nearly got us 
all into a jolly good row, with his own box full all the time; 
butter-scotch, if you please, and jam, and ginger wine! You’ll 
just put ’em all back again, will you, you young humbug!” 

“ Do you use those words to me, sir?” said Paul, angrily, for 
he did not like to be called a humbug. 

“Yes, sir — please, sir,” jeered Tip 2 )ing; “I did venture to 
take such a liberty, sir. ” 

“ Then it was like your infernal impudence,” growled Paul. 
“ You be kind enough to leave my affairs alone. Upon my word, 
what are boys coming to nowadays!” 

“ Are you going to put that tuck back?” said Tipping, impa- 
tiently. 

“ No, sir, I’m not. Don’t interfere’ with what you’re not ex- 
pected to understand!” 

“Well, if you won’t,” said Tipping, easily, “I suppose we 
must. Biddlecomb, kindly knock him down, and sit on his 
head while I fill his playbox for him.” 

This was neatly and quickly done. Biddlecomb tripped Mr. 
Bultitude up, and sat firmly on him, while Tipping carefully 
replaced the good things in Dick’s box, after which he locked 
it, and courteously returned the key. “As the box is heavy,” 
he said, with a wicked wink, “ I’ll carry it up for you myself,” 
which he did, Paul following, more dead than alive, and too 
shaken even to expostulate. 

“ Bultitude’s box was rather too heavy for him, sir,” he ex- 
plained as he came in; and Dr. Grimstone, who had quite re- 
covered his equanimity, smiled indulgently, and remarked that 
he “ liked to see the strong assisting the weak.” 

All the boxes had by this time been brought up, and were 
ranged upon the tables, while the doctor went round, making 
an almost formal inspection, like a Custom House officer search- 
ing compatriots, and becoming milder and milder as box after 
box opened to reveal a fair and innocent interior. 

Paul’s turn was coming very near, and his heart seemed to 
shrivel like a burst bladder. He fumbled with his key, and 
tried to lose it. It was terrible to have one's self to apply the 
match which is to blow one to the winds. If — if — the idea was 
almost too horrible — but if he, a blameless and respectable city 
merchant, were actually to find himself served like the misera- 
ble Coggs! 

At last the doctor actually stood by him. “ Well, my boy,” 


76 


VICE VERSA. 


he said, not unkindly, “ I’m not afraid of anything wrong here, 
at any rate.” 

Mr. Bultitude, who had the best reasons for not sharing his 
confidence, made some inarticulate sounds, and pretended to 
have a difficulty in turning the key. 

“Eh? Come, open the box,” said the doctor, with an altered 
manner. “ What are you fumbling at it for in this — this highly 
suspicious manner? I’ll open it myself.” 

He took the key and opened the lid, when the cakes and wine 
stood revealed in all their damning profusion. The doctor 
stepped back dramatically. “Hardbake! ’ he gasped; “wine, 
pots of strawberry jam! Oh, Bultitude, this is well — vastly 
well indeed! So I have nourished one more viper in my bosom, 
have I? A crawling reptile which curries favor by denouncing 
the very crime it conceals in its playbox! Oh, this is black du- 
plicity! Bultitude, I was not prepared for this!” 

“I — I swear I never put them in!” protested the unhappy 
Paul. “I — I never touch such things; they would bring on 
my gout in half an hour. It’s ridiculous to punish me. I never 
knew they were there!” 

“ Then why were you so anxious to avoid opening the box?” 
rejoined the doctor. “ No, sir, you’re too ingenious; your guilt 
is clear. Go to the dormitory, and wait there till I come to 
you!” 

Paul went upstairs, feeling utterly abandoned and helpless. 
Though a word as to his real character might have saved him, 
he could not have said it, and worse still, knew now that he 
could not. 

“I shall be caned,” he told himself, and the thought nearly 
drove him mad. “I know I shall be caned! What on earth 
shall I do?” 

He opened the door of his bedroom. Coggs was rocking and 
moaning on his bed in one corner of the room, but looked up 
with red, furious eyes as Paul came in. 

“What do you want up here?” he said savagely. “ Go away, 
can’t you?” 

“ I wish I could go away,” said Paul dolefully; “but I’m — 
hum — I’m sent up here too,” he explained, with some natural 
embarrassment. 

“What!” cried Coggs, slipping off his bed and staring wildly; 
“you don’t mean to say you’re going to catch it too?” 

“ I’ve — ah — every reason to fear,” said Mr. Bultitude stiffly, 
“ that I am indeed going to ‘ catch it,’ as you call it.” 

“ Hooray !” shouted Coggs hysterically; “I don’t care now. 
And I’ll have some revenge on my own account as well. I don’t 
mind an extra licking, and you’re in for one as it is. Will you 
stand up to me or not?” 


VICE VERSA. 


77 


“I don’t understand you,” said Paul. “Don’t come so near. 
Keep off, you young demon, will you?” he cried presently, as 
Coggs, exas -aerated by all liis wrongs, was rushing at him with 
an evidently hostile intent. “There, don’t be annoyed, my 
good boy,” he pleaded, catching up a chair as a bulwark. “ It 
was a misundertanding. I wish you no harm. There, my dear 
young friend! Don’t!” 

The “dear young friend ” was grappling with him and at- 
tempting to wrest the chair aw’ay by brute force. “When I get 
at you,” he said, his hot breath hissing through the chair rungs, 
“ I'll give you the very warmest spanking you ever heard of!” 

“ Murder!” Paul gasped, feeling his hold on the chair relax- 
ing. “Unless help comes, this young fiend will have my 
blood!” 

They w^ere revolving slowly round the chair, watching each 
other’s eyes like gladiators, when Paul noticed a sudden blank- 
ness and fixity in his antagonist’s expression, and, looking 
round, saw Dr. Grimstone’s awful form framed in the doorway, 
and gave himself up for lost. 


CHAPTER VI. 

liEAENING AND ACCOMPIilSHMENTS. 

“ I subscribe to Lucian : ’tis an elegant thing 'which cleareth up the 
mind, exerciseth the body, delights the spectators, which teacheth 
many comely gestures, equally Meeting the ears, eyes, and soul it- 
self.” — Burton, on Dancing. 

“What is this?” asked Dr. Grimstone, in his most blood- 
curling tone, after a most impressive pause at the dormitory 
door. 

Mr. Bultitude held his tongue, but kept fast hold of his chair, 
'wdiich he held before him as a defense against either party, 
while Coggs remained motionless in the center of the room, with 
crookod knees and hands dangling impotently. 

“ Will one of you be good enough to explain how you come 
to be found struggling in this unseemly manner? I sent you up 
here to meditate on your past behavior.” 

“I should be most happy to meditate, sir,” protested Paul, 
lo'wering his chair ,on discovering that there was no immediate 
danger, “if that— that bloodthirsty young ruffian there would 


78 


VICE VERSA. 


allow me to do so. I am going about in bodily fear of him, Dr. 
Grimstone. I want him bound over to keep the peace, I de- 
cline to be left alone with him — he’s not safe!” 

“ Is that so, Coggs? Are you mean and base enough to take 
this cowardly revenge on a boy who has had the moral courage 
to expose your deceit — for your ultimate good — a boy who is 
unable to defend himself against you?” 

“ He can fight when he chooses, sir,” said Coggs; “he blacked 
my eye last term, sir!” 

“ I assure you,” said Paul, with the convincing earnestness of 
truth, “that I never blacked anybody’s eye in the whole 
course of my life. I am not — ah — a pugnacious man. My 
age, and — hum — my position, ought to protect me from these 
scandals ” 

“You’ve come back this year, sir,” said Dr. Grimstone, “ with 
a very odd way of talking of yourself — an exceedingly odd way. 
Unless I see you abandoning it and behaving like a reasonable 
boy again, I shall be forced to conclude you intend some disre- 
spect and open defiance by it‘'’ 

“If you would allow me an opportunity of explaining my 
position, sir,” said Paul, “I would undertake to clear your 
mind directly of such a monstrous idea. I am trying to assert 
my rights. Dr. Grimstone — my rights as a citizen, as a house- 
holder! This is no place for me, and I appeal to you to set me 
free. If you only knew one-tenth ” 

“Let us understand one another, Bultitude,” interrupted the 
doctor. “You may think it an excellent joke to talk nonsense 
to me like this. But let me tell you there is a point where a 
jest becomes an insult. I’ve spared you hitherto out of consid- 
' eration for the feelings of your excellent father, who is so anxi- 
ous that you should become an object of pride and credit to 
him; but, if you dare to treat me to any more of this bombast 
about ‘explaining your rights,’ you will force me to exercise 
one of mine — the right to inflict corporal punishment, sir — which 
you have just seen in operation upon another.” 

“Oh!” said Mr. Bultitude, faintly, feeling utterly crestfal- 
len — and he could say nothing more. 

“As for those illicit luxuries in your playbox,” continued the 
doctor, “ the fact that you brought the box up as it was is in 
your favor; and I am inclined, on reflection, to overlook the af- 
fair, if you can assure me that you were no party to their being 
put there.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Paul, “I gave the strictest orders 
that there was to be no such useless extravagance. I objected 
to have the kitchen and housekeeper’s room ransacked to make 
a set of rascally boys ill for a fortnight at my expense!” 

The doctor stared slightly at this creditable but unnatural 


VICE VERSA. 


79 


view of the subject. However, as he could not quarrel with the 
sentiment, he let the manner of expressing it pass unrebuked 
for tlie present; end after sentencing Coggs to two days’ deten- 
tion and the copying of innumerable French verbs, he sent the 
ill-matched pair down to the schoolroom to join their respective 
classes. 

Paul went resignedly down stairs and into the room, where he 
found Mr. Blinkhorn at the head of one of the long tables, tak- 
ing a class of about a dozen boys. 

“Take your Livy and Latin Primer, Bultitude,” said Mr. 
Blinkhorn, mildly, “ and sit down.” 

Mr. Blinkhorn was a tall, angular man, with a long neck and 
slightly drooping head. He had thin, wiry brown hair, and a 
plain face, with shortsighted, kin d brown eyes. In character 
he was mild and reserved, too conscientious to allow himself the 
luxury of either favorites or aversions among the boys, all of 
whom in his secret soul he probably disliked about equally, 
though he neither said nor did anything to show it. 

Paul took a book — any book, for he did not know or care to 
know one from another - and sat down at the end farthest from 
the master, inwardly rebelling at having education thus forced 
upon him at his advanced years, but seeing no escape. 

“At dinner time,” he resolved, desperately, “I will insist 
on speaking out, but just now it is simply prudent to humor 
them.” 

The rest of the class drew away from him with marked cold- 
ness, and occ'asionally saluted him (when Mr. Blinkhorn’s at- 
tention was called away) with terms and grimaces which Paul, 
although he failed to thoroughly understand them, felt instinct- 
ively were not intended as compliments. 

Mr. Blinkhorn’s notions of discipline were qualified by a gen- 
tleman’s instinct, which forbade him to harass a boy already in 
trouble, as he understood young Bultitude had been, and so he 
forebore from pressing him to take any share in the class work. 

Mr. Bultitude, therefore, was saved from any necessity of be- 
traying his total ignorance of his author, and sat gloomily on 
the hard form, impatiently watching the minute-hand skulk 
round the mean, dull face of the clock above the chimney-piece, 
wdiile around him one boy after another droned out a listless 
translation of the work before him, interrupted by mild correc- 
tions and comments from the master. 

What a preposterous change from all his ordinary habits! At 
this very time, only twenty-four hours since, he was stepping 
majestically toward his accustomed omnibus, which was waiting 
with deference for him to overtake it; he was taking his seat, 
saluted respectfully by the conductor and cheerily by his fel- 
low-passengers, as a man of recognized mark and position. 


80 


VICE VERSA. 


Now that omnibus would halt at the corner of Westbourne 
Terrace in vain, and go on its way Bankward without him. He 
was many miles away — in the very last place where any one 
would be likely to look for him, occupying the post of whip- 
ping-boy ” to his miserable son ! 

Was ever an inoffensive and respectable old gentleman placed 
in a more false and ridiculous position? 

If he_had only kept his drawer locked, and hidden the 
abominable Garuda Stone away from Dick’s jurying eyes; if he 
had let the moralizing alone; if Boaler had not been so long 
fetching that cab, or if he had not happened to faint at the criti- 
cal moment — what an immense difference any one of these a]^- 
parent trifles would have made! 

And now, what was he to do to get out of this incongruous 
and distasteful jilace? It was all very well to say that he had 
only to insist upon a hearing from the doctor; but what if, as he 
had very grave reason to fear, the doctor should absolutely re- 
fuse to listen, should even proceed to carry out his horrible 
threat? Must he remain there till the holidays came to release 
him? Suppose Dick — as he certainly would unless he was 
quite a fool — declined to receive him during the holidays? It 
was absolutely necessary to return home at once; every addi- 
tional hour he passed in imprisonment made it harder to regain 
his lost self. 

Now and then he roused himself from all these gloomy 
thoughts to observe his companions. The boys at the iipj^er 
end, near Blinkhorn, were fairly attentive, and he noticed one 
small, snug-faced boy, about half way up, who, while a class- 
mate was faltering and blundering over some question, would 
stretch out a snapping finger and thumb, and cry, “I know, 
sir. Let me tell him. Ask me, sir!” in a restless agony of su- 
perior information. 

Down by Paul, however, the discipline was relaxed enough, 
as perhaps could only be expected on the first day of the term. 
One wild-eyed, long-hair#^d boy had brought out a small china 
figure, with which, and the assistance of his right hand draped 
in a pocket-handkerchief, and wielding a pen holder, he was 
busyenacting a drama based on the lines of Punch and Judy, to 
the breathless amusement of his neighbors. 

Mr. Bultitude might have hoped to escape notice by a policy 
of judicious self-effacement, but, unhappily, his long, blank, 
uninterested face was held by his companions to bear an im])lied 
reproach, and being delicately sensitive on these points they 
kicked his legs viciously, which made him extremely glad when 
dinner-time came, although he felt too faint and bilious to be 
tempted by anything but the lightest and daintiest luncheon. 

But at dinner he found, with a shudder, that he was expected 


VICE VERSA. 


81 


to swallow a thick, ragged section of boiled mutton, which had 
been carved and helped so long before he sat down to it that 
the stagnant gravy was chilled and congealed into patches of 
greasy white. 

He" managed to swallow it, with many pauses cf invincible 
disgust, only to find it replaced by a solid slab of i^ale-broWn 
suet-pudding, sparsely bedewed with unctuous black treacle. 

This, though a plentiful, and by no means unwholesome fare 
for growing boys, was not what he had been accustomed to, and, 
feeling far too heavy and unwell after it to venture upon an en- 
counter with the doctor, he w^andered slow and melancholy 
round the bare, graveled playground, during the half-hour after 
dinner devoted to the inevitable “chevy,” until the doctor ap- 
peared at the head of the staircase. 

It is always sad for the historian to have to record a departure 
from principle, and I have to confess with shame, on Mr. Bulti- 
tude’s account, that, feeling the doctor’s eye upon him, and 
striving to propitiate him, he humiliated himself so far as to 
run about with an elaborate affectation of zest, and his exertions 
were rewarded by hearing himself cordially encouraged to fur- 
ther efforts. 

It cheered and emboldened him. “ I’ve put him in a good 
temper,” he told himself; “if I can only keep him in one till 
the evening, I really think I might be able to go up and tell him 
what a ridiculous mess I’ve got into. Why should I care, after 
all? At least I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. It’s an acci- 
dent that might have happened to any man!” 

It is a curious and unpleasant thing that, however reassuring 
and convincing the arguments may be with Avhich we succeed 
in bracing ourselves to meet or disregard unpleasantness, the 
force of those arguments seldom or never outlasts the frame of 
mind in which they are composed, and, when the unpleasant- 
ness is at hand, there we are, just as unreasonably alarmed at it 
as ever. 

Mr. Bultitude’s confidence faded away almost as soon as he 
found himself in the schoolroom again. He found himself as- 
signed to a class at one end of the room, where Mr. Tinkler 
presently introduced a new rule in Algebra to them, in such a 
manner as to procure for it a lasting unpopularity with all those 
who were not too much engaged in drawing duels and railway 
trains upon their slates to attend. 

Although Paul did not draw upon his slate, his utter ignorance 
of Algebra prevented him from being much edified by the 
cabalistic signs on the blackboard, w'hich Mr. Tinkler seemed to 
chalk up dubiously, and rub out again as soon as possible, with 
an air of being ashamed of them. So he tried to nerve himself 
for the coming ordeal by furtively watching and studying the 


82 


VICE VERSA. 


doctor, who was taking a Xenophon class at the upper end of 
the room, and, being in fairly good humor, was combining in- 
struction with amusement, in a manner peculiarly his own. 

He stopped the construing occasionally, to illustrate some 
word or passage by an anecdote; he condescended to enliven the 
translation here and there by a familiar and colloquial para- 
phrase; he magnanimously refrained from pressing any obviously 
inconvenient questions, and his manner, generally, was marked 
by a geniality which was additionally piquant from its extreme 
uncertainty. 

Mr. Bultitude could not help thinking it a rather ghastly form 
of gayety, but he hoped it might last. 

Presently, however, some one brought him a long blue envel- 
ope on a tray. He read it, and a frown gathered on his face. 
The boy who was translating at the time went on again in his 
former slipshod manner (which had hitherto provoked only 
jovial criticism and correction) with complete self-complacency, 
but found himself sternly brought to book, and burdened by a 
heavy imposition, before he quite realized that his blunders had 
ceased to amuse. 

Then began a season ot sore trial and tribulation for the class. 
The doctor suddenly withdrew the light of his countenance from 
them, and sunshine was succeded by blackest thunder-clouds. 
The wind was no longer tempered to the more closely shorn of 
the flock; the weakest vessels were put on unexpectedly at cru- 
cial passages, and, coming hopelessly to grief, were denounced 
as impostors and idlers, till half the class was dissolved in tears. 

A few of tbe better grounded stood the fire, like a remnant of 
the Old Guard in the Peninsula. With faces pale from alarm, 
and trembling voices, but perfect accuracy, they answered all 
the doctor’s searching inquiries after the paradigms of Greek 
verbs that seemed irregular to the verge of impropriety. 

Paul saw it all with renewed misgiving. “If I were there,” 
he thought, “ I should have been run out and flogged long ago! 
How angry those stupid young idiots are making him! How 
can I go up and speak to him when he’s like that? And yet I 
must. I’m sitting on dynamite as it is. The very first time 
they want me to answer any questions from some of their books, 
I shall be ruined! Why wasn’t I better educated when I was a 
boy, or why didn’t I make a better use of my opportunities! It 
will be a bitter thing if they thrash me for not knowing as much 
as Dick. Grimstoue’s coming this way now ; it’s all over with 
me !” 

The Greek class had managed to repel the enemy, with some 
loss to themselves, and the doctor now left his place for a mo- 
ment, and came down toward the bench on which Paul sat trem- 
bling. 


TICE VEBSA. 


83 


The storm, however, had passed over for the present, and he 
only said, with restored calmness, Who were the boys who 
learned dancing last term?” 

One or two of them said they had done so, and Dr. Grim- 
stone continued : “Mr. Burdekin was unable to give you the 
last lesson of his coui'se last term, and has arranged to take you 
to-day, as he will be in the neighborhood. So be off at once to 
Mrs. Grimstoue and change your shoes. Bultitude, you learned 
last term, too. Go with the others.” 

Mr. Bultitude was too overcome by this unexpected attack to 
contradict it, though of course he was quite able to do so ; but 
then, if he had, he must have explained all, and he felt strongly 
that just then was neither the time nor the place for particulars. 

It Avould have been wiser, perhaps, it would certainly have 
brought matters to a crisis, if he could have forced himself to 
tell everything — the whole truth in all its outrageous improba- 
bility— but he could not. 

Let those who feel inclined to blame him for lack of firmness, 
consider how difficult and delicate a business it must almost of 
necessity be for any one to declare openly, in the teeth of com- 
mon sense and plain facts, that there has been a mistake, and, 
in point of fact, he is not his own son, but his own father. 

“I suppose I must go,” he thought. “I needn’t dance. 
Haven’t danced since 1 was a young man. But I can’t afford to 
offend him just now.” 

And so he followed the rest into a sort of cloak-room, where 
the tall hats which the boys wore on Sundays were all kept on 
shelves in white bandboxes ; and there his hair was brushed, 
his feet were thrust into very shiny patent leather shoes, and a 
pair of. kid gloves were given out to him to put on. 

The dancing lesson was to be held in the “Dining Hall,” 
from which the savor of mutton had not altogether departed. 
When Paul came in he found the floor cleared and the tables 
and forms piled up on one side of the room. 

• Biddlecomb and Tipping and some of the smaller boys were 
there already, their gloves and shiny shoes giving them a feeling 
of ceremony and constraint which they tried to carry off by an 
uncouth parody of politeness. 

Siggers was telling stories of the dances he had been to in 
town, and the fine girls, whose step had exactly suited his own, 
and Tipping was leaning gloomily against the wall, listening to 
something Ghawner was whispering in his ear. 

There was a rustle of dresses down the stairs outside, and two 
thin little girls, looking excessively proper and prim, came in 
with an elderly gentlewoman, who was their governess, and 
^ or Q 0. pince~7iez, to impart the necessary suggestion of a supe- 
rior intellect They were the Miss Mutlows, sisters of one of 


84 


TICE VERSA, 


the day-boarders, and attended the course by special favor as 
friends of Dulcie’s, who followed them in with a little gleam of 
shy anticipation in her eyes. 

The Miss Mutlovvs sat stifSy down on a form, one on each side 
of her governess, and all three stared solemnly at the boys, who 
began to blush vividly under the inspection, to unbutton and 
rebutton their gloves with great care, and to shift from leg to 
leg in an embarrassed manner. 

Ilulcie soon singled out poor Mr. Bultitude, who, mindful of 
Tipping’s warning, was doing his very best to avoid her. 

She ran straight to him, laid her hand on his arm, and looked 
into his face pleadingly. “ Dick,” she said, you’re not sulky 
still, are you?” 

Mr, Bultitude had borne a good deal already, and, not being 
remarkably sweet-natured, he shook the little mittened hand 
away, half-petulant and half- alarmed. “■ I do wish you wouldn’t 
do this sort of thing in public. You’ll compromise me, you 
know!’' he said, nervously. 

Bulcie opened her gray eyes wide, and then a flush came into 
her cheeks, and she made a little disdainful upward movement 
of her chin. 

You didn’t mind it once,”* she said. I thought you might 
want to dance with me. You liked to last term. But I’m sure 
I don’t care if you choose to be disagreeable. Go and dance 
with Mary Mutlow if you want to, though you did say she 
danced like a pair of compasses, and I shall tell her you said so, 
too. And you know you’re not a good dancer yourself. Are 
you going to dance with Mary?”^ 

Paul stamped. tell you I never dance, he said. “ I can’t 
dance any more than a lamp-post. You don’t seem an ill-natured 
little girl, but why on earth can’t you let me alone?” 

Builcie’s eyes flashed. ‘‘ You’re a nasty sulky boy,” she said, 
in an angry undertone (all the conversation had, of course, been 
carried on in whispers). “I’ll never speak to you or look at 
you again. You’re the most horrid boy in the school — and the 
ugliest!” 

And she turned proudly away, though any one who looked 
might have seen the fire ip her eyes extinguished as she did so. 
Perhaps Tipping did see it, for he scowled at them from his 
comer. 

There was another sound outside, as of fiddle-strings being 
twanged by the finger, and, as the boys hastily formed up in 
two lines down the center of the room and the Miss Mutlows 
\ and Bulcie prepared themselves for the courtesy of state, there 
Wme in a little fat man, with mutton-chop whiskers and a w'hite 
face, upon which was written an unalterable conviction that his 
manners and deportment were perfection itself. 


VICE VERSA. 


85 


The two rows of boys bent themselves stiffly from the back, 
and Mr. Burdekin returned the compliment by an inclusive and 
stately inclination. 

“Good afternoon, madam. Young ladies, I trust I find you 
well. (The courtesy just a lee tie lower, Miss Mutlow — the right 
foot less drawn back. Beautiful! Feet closer at the recovery. 
Perfect!) Young gentlemen, good evening. Take your usual 
places, please, all of you, for our preliminary exercises. Now, 
the chassee round the room. Will you lead off, please. Master 
Dummer; the hands just lightly touching the shoiilders, the 
head thrown negligently back to balance the figure; the whole 
deportment easy, but not careless. Now, please!” 

And, talking all the time with a metrical fiuency, he scraped 
a little jig on the violin, while Bummer led off a procession 
which solemnly capered round the room in sundry stages of 
conscious awkwardness. Mr. Bultitude shuffled along somehow 
after the rest, with rebellion at his heart and a deep sense of 
degredation. 

“ If my clerks were to see me now!” he thought. 

After some minutes of this, Mr. Burdekin stopped them and 
directed sets to be formed for “ The Lancers.” 

“Master Bultitude,” said Mr. Burdekin, “you will take Miss 
Mutlow, please.” 

“Thank you,” said Paul, “but — ah — I don’t dance.” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense, sir, you are one of my most promising 
pupils. You mustn’t tell me that. Not another word! Come, 
select your partners.” 

Paul had no option. He was paired off with the tall and 
rather angular young lady mentioned, while Bulcie looked on 
pouting, and snubbed Tipping, who humbly asked for the 
pleasure of dancing with her, by declaring that she meant to 
dance with Tom. 

The dance began to a sort of rhythmical accompaniment by 
Mr. Burdekin, who intoned “Tops advance, retire and cross. 
Balance at corners. (Very nice. Miss Griinstone!) More ‘ aban- 
don," Master Chawner! Lift the feet more from the floor. Not 
so high as that! Oh! dear me, that last figure over again. And 
slide the feet, oh, slide the feet! (Master Bultitude, you're leav- 
ing out all the steps!)” 

Paul was dragged, unwilling but unresisting, through it all 
by his partner, who jerked and pushed him into his place with- 
out a word, being apparently under strict orders from the gov- 
erness not on any account to speak to the boys. 

After the dance, the couples promenaded in a stiff but stately 
manner round the room to a dirge-like march scraped upon the 
violin, the boys taking the parts of ladies jibbing away from 
their partners in a highly unlady-like fashion, and the boy bur- 


86 


VICE VERSA. 


dened with the companionship of the younger Miss Mutlow 
walking along in a very agony of bashfulness. 

“I suppose,” thought Paul, as he led the w'ay with Miss Mary 
Mutlow, if Dick were ever to bear of this, he’d think it funny. 

Oh, if I ever get the upper hand of him again How much 

longer, I wonder, shall I have to play the fool to this infernal 
fiddle!” 

But if this was bad, worse was to come. 

There was another pause, in which Mr. Burdekin said blandly: 
“I wonder now if we have forgotten our Scotch hornpipe. Per- 
haps Master Bultitude will prove the contrary. If I remember 
right, he used to perform it with singular correctness. And, let 
me tell you, there are a great number of spurious hornpipe steps 
in circulation. Come, sir, oblige me by dancing it alone!” 

This was the final straw. It was not to be supposed for one 
moment that Mr. Bultitude would lower his dignity in such a 
preposterous manner. Besides, he did not know how to dance 
the hornpipe. 

So he said: “ I shall do nothing of the sort. I’ve had quite 
enough of this — ah — tomfoolery!” 

‘‘That is a very impolite manner of declining. Master Bulti- 
tude; highly discourteous and unpolished. I must insisITnow 
— really, as a personal matter — upon your going through the 
sailor’s hornpipe. Come, you won’t make a scene, I’m sure. 
You’ll oblige me, as a gentleman?” 

“I tell you I can’t!” said Mr. Bultitude, sullenly. “ I never 
did such a thing in my life; it would be enough to kill me at 
my age!” 

“ This is untrue, sir. Do you mean to say you will not dance 
the hornpipe?” 

“ No,” said Paul, “ I’ll be d d if I do!” 

There was, unfortunately, no possible doubt about the nature 
of the word used — he said "it so very distinctly. The governess 
screamed and called her charges to her, Dulcie hid her face, and 
some of the boys tittered. 

Mr. Burdekin turned pink. “After that disgraceful language, 
sir, in the presence of the fairer sex, I have no* more to do with 
you. You will have the goodness to stand in the center of that 
form. Gentlemen, select your partners for the Highland schot- 
tische!” 

Mr. Bultitude, by no means sorry to be freed from the irk- 
some necessity of dancing with a heart ill-attuned for enjoy® 
ment, got up on the form and stood looking, sullenly enough, 
upon the proceedings. The governess glowered at him now 
and then as a monster of youthful depravity; the Miss Mutlows 
glanced up at him as they tripped past, with curiosity not un- 


VICE VERSA. 87 

mixed with admiration, but Dulcie steadily avoided looking in 
his direction. 

Paul was just congratulating himself upon his escape, when 
the door opened wide, and the doctor marched slowly and im- 
posingly into the room. 

He did this occasionally, partly to superintend matters, and 
partly as an encouraging mark of approbation. He looked 
round the class at first with benignant toleration, until his glance 
took in the bench upon which Mr. Bultitude was set up. Then 
his eye slowly traveled up to the level of Paul’s head, his ex- 
pression changing meanwhile to a petrifying glare. 

It was not, as Paul instinctively felt, exactly the position in 
which a gentleman who wished to stand well with those in au- 
thority over him would prefer to be found. He felt his heart 
turn to water within him, and stared limp and helpless at the 
doctor. 

There was an awful silence (Dr. Grimstone was addicted to 
awful silences; and, indeed, if seldom strictly “ golden,” silence 
may often be called “iron”), but at last he inquired: “And 
pray what may you be doing up there, sir?” 

“ Upon my soul I can’t say,” said Mr. Bultitude, feebly. 
“Ask that gentleman there with the fiddle — he knows.” 

Mr. Burdekin was a good-natured, easy-tempered little man, 
and had already forgotten the affront to his dignity. He was 
anxious not to get the boy into more trouble. 

“ Master Bultitude was a little inattentive and, I may say, 
wanting in respect. Dr. Grimstone,” he said, putting it as mildly 
as he could with any accuracy; “ so I ventured to place him 
there as a punishment.” 

“ Quite right, Mr. Burdekin,” said the doctor, “ quite right. 
I am sorry that any boy of mine should have caused you to do 
so. You are again beginning your career of disorder and rebel- 
lion, are you, sir? Go up into the schoolroom at once, and 
write a dozen copies before tea-time! A very little more eccen- 
tricity and insubordination from you, Bultitude, and you will 
reap a full reward — a full reward, sir!” 

So Mr. Bultitude was driven out of the dancing-class in dire 
disgrace, which would not have distressed him particularly — 
being only one more drop in his bitter cup — but that he recog- 
nized that now his hopes of approaching the doctor with his 
burden of woe were fallen like a card castle. They were fiddled 
and danced away for at least twenty-four hours — perhaps for- 
ever! 

Bitterly did he brood over this as he slowly and laboriously 
copied out sundry vain repetitions of such axioms as, “ Cultivate 
Habits of Courtesy and Self-control,” and “True Happiness is 
to be sought in Contentment.” He saw the prospect of a toler- 


88 


VICE VERSA. 


ably severe flogging growing more and more distinct, and felt 
that he could not present himself to his family with the con- 
sciousness of having suffered such an indelible disgrace. His 
family — what would become of them in his absence? Would he 
ever see his comfortable home in Bayswater again? 

Tea-time came, and after it evening preparation, when Mr. 
Tinkler presided in a feeble and ineffective manner, perpetually 
suspecting that the faint sniggers he heard* were indulged in at 
his own expense, and calling perfectly innocent victims to ac- 
count for them. 

Paul sat next to Jolland, and, in his desperate anxiety to avoid 
further unpleasantness, found himself, as he could not for his 
life have written a Latin or a German composition, reduced to 
copy down his neighbor’s exercises. This Jolland (who had 
looked forward to an arrangement of a very opposite kind) never- 
theless cheerfully allowed him to do, though he expressed 
doubts as to the wisdom of a servile imitation — more, perhaps, 
from prudence than conscientiousness. 

Jolland, in the intervals of study, was deeply engaged in the 
production of a small illustrated work of fiction, which he was 
pleased to call “ The Adventures of Ben Buterkin at School.” It 
was in a great measure an autobiography, and the cuts depicting 
the hero’s flagellations — which were frequent in the course of the 
narrative — were executed with much vigor and feeling. 

He turned out a great number of these works in the course of 
the term, as well as faces in pen and ink with moving tongues 
and rolling eyes, and these he would present to a few favored 
friends with a secretive and self-depreciatory giggle. 

^ Amid scenes and companions like these, Paul sat out the even- 
ing hours on his seat, which was just at the junction of 
two forms — an exquisitely uncomfortable position, as all who 
have tried hard it will acknowledge — until the time for going to 
bed came round again. He dreaded the hours of darkness, but 
there was no help for it; to protest would have been madness 
just then, and, once more, he was forced to pass a night under 
the roof of Crichton House. 

It was even worse than the first, though this was greatly ow- 
ing to his own obstinacy. 

The boys, if less subdued, were in better temper than the 
evening before, and found it troublesome to keep up a feud 
when the first flush of resentment had died out. There was 
a general disposition to forget his departure from the code of 
schoolboy honor, and give him an opportunity of retrieving the 
past. 

But he would not meet them half-way; his repeated repulses 
by the doctor, and all the diflSculties that beset his return to 
freedom, had made him very sulky and snappish. He had not 


VICE VERSA. 


89 


patience or adaptability enough to respond to their advances, 
and only shrank from their rough good nature — which naturally 
checked the current of good feeling. 

Then, when the lights were put out, some one demanded, a 
story. Most of the bedrooms possessed a professional story- 
teller, and in one there was a young romancist who began a 
stirring history the very first night of the term, which always 
ran on until the night l:)efore the holidays, and, if his hearers 
were apt to yawn at .the sixth week of it, he himself enjoyed 
and believed in it keenly from beginning to end. 

Dick Bultitude had b^n a valued raconteur, it appeared, and 
his father found accordingly, to his disgust, that he was ex- 
pected to amuse them with a story. When he clearly understood 
the idea, he rejected it with so savage a snarl that he soon 
found it necessary to retire under the bedclothes to escape the 
geneial indignation that followed. 

Finding that he did not actively resent it (the real Dick would 
have had the occupant of the nearest bed out by the ears in a 
ininutel), they profited by his prudence to come to his bedside, 
where they pillowed his weary head (with their own pillows) till 
the slight offered them was more than avenged. 

After all, Mr. Bultitude, with the breath half beaten out of 
his body, lay writhing and spluttering on his hard, rough 
bed till long after silence had fallen over the adjoining beds, 
and the sleepy hum of talk in the other bedrooms hM died 
away. 

Then he, too, drifted off into wild and troubled dreams, 
which, at their maddest, were scattered into blankness by a 
sudden and violent shock, which jerked him, clutching and 
grasping at nothing, on to the cold, bare boards, where he rolled, 
shivering. 

“An earthquake!” he thought, “an explosion . . . gas— or 
dynamite! He must go and call the children . . . Boaler . . . 
the plate!” 

But the reality to which he woke was worse still. Tipping 
and Coker had been patiently pinching themselves to keep 
awake until their enemy should be soundly asleep, in order to 
enjoy the exquisite pleasure of letting down the mattress; and, 
too dazed and frightened even to swear, Paul gathered up his 
bedclothes and tried to draw them about him as well as he 
might, and seek sleep, which had lost its security. 

The Garuda Stone had done one grim and cruel piece of work 
at least in its time. 


90 


VICE VERSA. 


CHAPTER VIL 

CUTTING THE KNOT. 

“A Crowd is not Company; And Faces are bnt a Gallery of Pictures; 

And Talk but a Tinckling Oymball, where there is no Love'" — Bacon, 

Once more Mr. Bultitude rose betimes’ dressed noiselessly,, 
and stole down to the cold schoolroom, where one gas-jet was 
burning palely — for the morning was raw and foggy. 

This time, however, he was not alone. Mr. Blinkhorn was 
sitting at his little table in the corner, correcting exercises, with 
his chilly hands cased in woolen mittens. He looked up as Paul 
came in, and nodded kindly. 

Paul went straight to the fire, and stood staring into it with 
lack-luster eye, too apathetic even to be hopeless, for the work of 
enlightening the doctor seemed more terrible and impossible 
than ever, and he began to see that, if the only way of escape 
lay there, he had better make up his mind with what philosophy 
he could to adapt himself to his altered circumstances, and stav 
on for the rest of the term. 

But the prospect was so doleful and so blank that he drew a 
heavy sigh as he thought of it. Mr. Blinkhorn heard it, and 
rose awkwardly from the rickety little writing-table, knocking 
over a little pile of marble-covered copy-books as he did so. 

Then he crossed over to Paul, and laid a hand gently on his 
shoulder. “ Look here, ” he said, “why don’t you confide in 
me? Do you think I’m blind to what has happened to you? I 
can see the change in you, if others cannot. Why not trust me?’^ 

Mr. Bultitude looked up into his face, which had an honest 
interest and kindliness in it, and his heart warmed with a faint 
hope. If this young man had been shrewd enough to guess at 
his unhappy secret, might he not be willing to intercede with 
the doctor for him? He looked good-natured— ho would trust 
him. 

“Do you mean to say really,” he asked, with more cordiality 
than he had used for a long time, “ that you— see— the— a— -the 
difference?” 

“I saw it almost directly,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, with mild 
triumph. 

“That’s the most extraordinary thing,” said Paul, “and yet it 
ought to be evident enough to be sure. But no, vou can’t have 
guessed the real state of things!” 

“Listen,* and stop me if I’m wrong. Within the last few days 
a great change has been at work within you. You are not the 


VICE VERSA. 


91 


idle, thoughtless, mischievous boy who left here for his holi- 
days ” 

“No,” said Paul, “I’ll swear I’m not!” 

“ Thfire is no occasion for such strong expressions. But, at 
all events, you come back here an altogether different being. 
Am I right in saying so?” 

“ Perfectlj’,” said Paul, overjoyed at being so thoroughly un- 
derstood, “perfectly. You’re a very intelligent young man, 
sir. Shake hands. Why, I shouldn’t be surprised, after that, if 
you knew how it all happened.” 

“That, too,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, smiling, “I can guess. It 
arose, I doubt not, in a wish?” 

“Yes,” cried Paul, “you’ve hit it again. You’re a conjurer, 
sir, by Gad you are!” 

“ Don’t say ‘ by Gad,’ Bultitude; it’s inconsistent. It began, 
I was saying, in a wish, lialf unconscious perhaps, to be some- 
thing other than what you had been ” 

“I was a fool,” groaned Mr. Bultiude, “ yes, that was the way 
it began!” 

“Then insensibly the wish worked a gradual transformation 
in your nature (you are old enough to follow me?)” 

“Old enough for him to follow me.'” thought Paul: but he 
was too pleased to be annoyed.’ “Hardly gradual, I should 
say,” he said aloud. “ But go on, sir, pray go on. I see you 
know all about it.” 

“ At first the other part of you struggled against the new 
feelings. You strove to forget them — you even tried to resume 
your old habits, your former way of life — but to no i>urpose; 
and when you came here you found no fellowship among your 
companions ’ 

“Quite out of the question !” said Paul. 

“ Their pleasures give you no delight ” 

“Not a bit!” 

“ They, on their side, perhaps misunderstood your lack of 
interest in their pursuits. They cannot see — how should they 
— that you have altered your mode of life, and when they catch 
the .difference between you and the Richard Bultitude they 
knew, why, they are apt to resent it.” 

“ They are,” agreed Mr. Bultitude; “ they resent it in a con- 
founded disagreeable way, you know. Why, I assure you that 
only last night I was ” 

“Hush,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, holding up one hand; “com- 
plaints are unmanly. But I see you wonder at my knowing all 
this?” 

“Well,” said Paul, “I am rather surprised.” 

“ What would you say if I told you I had undergone it myself 
in my time?” 


92 


VICE VERSA. 


“You don’t mean to tell me there are two Garuda Stones in 
this miserable world!” cried Paul, thoroughly astonished. 

“1 don’t know what you mean now, but I can say with truth 
that I too have had my experiences — my trials. Months ago, 
from certain signs I noticed, I foresaw that this was coming 
upon you.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Bultitude, “I think, in common decency, 
you might have warned me. A post-card would have done it. 
I should have been better prepared to meet this, then!” 

“It would have been worse than useless to attempt to hurry 
on the crisis. It might have even prevented what I fondly 
hoped would come to pass.” 

“Fondly hoped!” said Paul; “upon my word you speak 
plainly, sir.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Blinkhorn. “You see I knew the Dick 
Bultitude that was, so well; he was frolicsome, impulsive, 
mischievous even, but under it all there lay a nature of sterling 
worth.” 

“Sterling worth!” cried Paul. “A scoundrel, I tell you, a 
heartless, selfish young scoundrel! Call things by their right 
names, if you please. ’-’ 

“No, no,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, “this extreme self -deprecia- 
tion is morbid, very morbid. There was no actual vice.” 

“No actual vice! Why, God bless my soul, do you call in- 
gratitude — the basest, most unfilial, most treacherous ingrati- 
tude — no vice, sir? You may be a very excellent young man, 
but if you gloss over things in that fashion your moral sense 
must be perverted, sir — strangely perverted.” 

“There wore faults on both sides, I fear,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, 
growing a little scandalized by the boy’s odd warmth of expres- 
sion. , “I have heard something of what you had to bear with. 
On the one hand, a father, undemonstrative, stern, easily pro- 
voked; on the other, a son, thoughtless, forgetful, and at times 
it may be even willful. But you are too sensitive; you think 
too much of what seems to me a not unnatural (although, of 
course, improper) protest against coldness and injustice. I 
should be the last to encourage a child against a parent, but, to 
comfort your self-reproach, I think it right to assure you that, 
in my judgment, the outburst you refer to was very excusable.” 

“ Oh,” said Paul, “you do? You call that comfort? Excus- 
able! Why, what the deuce do you mean, sir? You’re taking 
the other side now!” 

“This is not the language of penitence, Bultitude,” said poor 
Mr. Blinkhorn, disheartened and bewildered. “Remember, 
you have done with your old self now!” 

“Don’t say that,” said Paul; “I don’t believe it!” 


VICE VERSA. 


93 


“You want to be your old self again?” gasped Mr. Blink- 
horn. 

“Why, of course I do,” said Paul, angrily; “Pm not an 
idiot!’ 

“ You are weary of the struggle so soon?” said the other, with 
reproach. 

“Weary? I tell you I’m sick of it! If I had only known 
what was in store for me before I had made such a fool of my- 
self!” 

“This is horrible!” said Mr. Blinkhorn — “I ought not to lis- 
ten to you.” 

“ But you must,” urged Paul; “ I tell you I can’t stand it any 
longer. I’m not fit for it at my age. You must see that your- 
self, and you must make Grimstone see it too!” • 

“Never!” said Mr. Blinkhorn, firmly. “Nor do I see how 
that would help you. I will not let you go back in this deplor- 
able way. You must nerve yourself to go on now in the path 
you have chosen; you must force your schoolfellows to love and 
respect you in your new character. Gome, take courage! After 
all, in spite of your altered life, there is no reason why you 
should not be a frank and happy-hearted boy, you know.” 

“A frank and happy-hearted fiddle-stick!” cried Paul, rudely 
(he was so disgusted at the suggestion); “ don’t talk rubbish, 
sir! I tliought you were going to show me some way out of all 
this, and, instead of that, knowing the shameful way I’ve been 
treated, you can stand there and calmly recommend me to stay 
on here and be happy -hearted and frank!” 

“You must bo calm, Bultitude, or I shall leave you. Listen 
to reason. You are here for your good. Youth, it has been 
beautifully said, is the springtime of life. Though you may 
not believe it, you will never be happier than you are now. 
Our schooldays are ” 

But Mr. Bultitude could not tamely be mocked with the very 
platitudes that had brought him all his misery — he cut the mas- 
ter short in a violent passion. 

“ This is too much!” he cried. “You shall not palm off that 
miserable rubbish on me. I see through it. It’s a plot to keep 
me here, and you’re in it. It’s false imprisonment, and I’ll write 
to the Times. I’ll expose the whole thing!” 

“This violence is only ridiculous,” said Mr. Blinkhorn. “If 
I were not too pained by it, I should feel it my duty to report 
your language to the doctor. As it is, you have bitterly disap- 
pointed me; I can’t understand it at all. You seemed so sub- 
dued, so softened lately. But, until you come to me and say you 
regret this, I must decline to have anything more to say to you. 
Take your book and sit down in your place!” 

And he went back to his exercises, looking puzzled and pained. 


94 


VICE VERSA. 


The fact was, he was an ardent believer in the Good Boy of a 
certain order of school tales — the boy who is seized with a sud- 
den conviction of the intrinsic baseness of boyhood, and does 
all in his power to get rid of the harmful taint; the boy who re- 
nounces his old comrades and his natural tastes (which aftenijl 
seldom have any serious harm in them), to don a panoply of 
priggishness which is too often kick-proof. 

This kind of boy is rare enough at most English schools, but 
Mr. Blinkhoru had been educated at a large Nonconformist col- 
lege, where “revivals ” and “ awakenings ” were periodical, and 
undoubtedly did j)roduce changes of character violent enough, 
but sadly short in duration. 

He was always waiting for some such boy to come to him with 
his confession \)f moral worthlessness and vows of unnatural 
perfection, and was too simple and earnest and good liimself to 
realize that such states of the youthful mind are not unfrequently 
merely morbid and hysterical, and too often degenerate into 
Pharisaism or, worse still, hypocrisy. 

So when he noticed Mr. Bultitude’s silence and depression, 
his studied withdrawal from the others and his evident want of 
sympathy with them, he believed he saw the symptoms of a 
conscience at work, and that he had found his reformed boy 
at last. 

It was a very unfortunate misunderstanding, for it separated 
Paul from, perhaps, the only person who would have had the 
guilelessness to believe his incredible story, and the good nature 
to help him to find escape from his misfortunes. 

Mr. Bultitude, on his part, was more angry and disgusted 
than ever. He began to see that there was a muddle somewhere, 
and that his identity was unsuspected still. The young man, 
for all his fair speaking and pretended shrewdness, was no con- 
jurer after all. He was left to nely on his own resources, and he 
had begun to lose all confidence in Mieir power to extricate 
iiim. 

As he brooded over this, the boys straggled down as before, 
and looked over their lessrons for the day in a dull, lifeless man- 
ner. The cold, unsatisfying breakfast and the half hour assigned 
to “ chevy ” followed in due course, and, after that, Paul found 
himself set down with a class to await the German master, Herr 
Stohwasser. 

He had again tried to pull himself together and approach the 
doctor with his protest, but no sooner did he find himself near 
his presence than his heart began to leap wildly and then re- 
tired down toward his boots, leaving him hoarse, palpitating, 
and utterly blank of ideas. 

It was no use — and he resigned himself for yet another day 
of unwelcome instruction. 


VICE VERSA. 


95 


The class was in a little room on the basement floor, with a 
linen-press taking up one side, some bare, white deal tables and 
forms, and, on the walls, a few colored German prints. They 
sat there talking and laughing, taking no notice of Mr. Bulti- 
tude, until the German made his appearance. 

He was by no means a formidable person, though stout and 
tall. He wore big, round, owlish spectacles, and his pale, 
broad face and long nose, combined with a wild crop of liglit 
hair and aflerce beard, gave him almost as incongruous an ap- 
pearance as if a sheep had looked out of a gun-port. 

He took his place with an air of tremendous determination 
to enforce a hard morning’s work on the book they were read- 
ing — a play of Schiller’s, of the plot of which, it is needless to 
say, no one of his pupils had or cared to have the vaguest no- 
tion, having long since condemned the whole subject, with in- 
sular prejudice, as “ rot.” 

“Now, please,” said Herr Stohwasser, “where we left off 
last term. Third act, first scene — Court before Tell’s house. 
Tell is with the carpenter axe, Hedwig with a domestic labor 
occupied. Walter and Wilhelm in the depth sport with a liddle 
gross-bow. Biddlegom, you begin. Walter (sings).” 

But Biddlecomb was in a conversational mood, and willing 
to postpone the task of translation, so he merely inquired, with 
an air of extreme interest, how Herr Stohwasser’s grammar was 
getting on. 

This was a subject on which (as he perhaps knew) the Ger- 
man never could resist enlarging, for, in common with most 
German masters, he was giving birth to a new grammar, which, 
from the daring originality of its plans, and its extreme sim- 
plicity, was destined to supersede all other similar works. 

“ Ach,” he said, “ it is Progressing. I haf just gompleted a 
gomprehensive table of ze irregular virps, vith ze eggserzizes 
upon zem. And zefe is further an appendeeks which in itself 
gontains a goncise view of all ze vort-plays possible in the 
Charman tong. But, come, let us gontinue vith our Tell!” 

“What are vort-plays?” persisted Biddlecomb, insiduously, 
having no idea of continuing with his Tell just yet. 

“ A vort-play,” explained Herr Stohwasser, “it is English, 
nicht so? A sporting vith vorts— a ‘galembour ’ — a — Gott pless 
me, vat you call a ‘ pon.’ ” 

“ Like the ope you made when you were a young man!” Jol- 
land called out from the lower end of the table. 

“Yes; tell us the one you made when you w^ere a young 
man!” the class entreated, with flattering eagerness. 

Herr Stohwasser began to laugh with slow, deep satisfaction; 
the satisfaction of a successful achievement. 

“ Hah, you remember dat!” he said; “ah, yes, I make him 


96 


VICE VERSA. 


when a young man; but, mind you, he was not a pon — he was 
a ‘ choke ’ I liaf told you all about him before.” 

“ We’ve forgotten it,” said Biddlecomb; “ tell it us again.” 

As a matter of fact, this joke, in all its lights, was tolerably 
familiar to most of them by this time, but, either on its individ- 
ual merits, or perhaps because it compared favorably with the 
sterner alternative of translating, it was periodically in request, 
and always met with evergreen appreciation. 

Herr Stohwasser beamed with the pride of authorship. Like 
the celebrated Scotchman, he “ jocked wi’ deeficulty,” and the 
outcome of so much labor was dear to him. 

“I zent him into ze Oharman ‘ Kladderadatch * (it is a paper 
like your * Pouch ’). It — mein choke — was upon ze Schleswig- 
Holstein gomplication; ze beginning was in this way ” 

And he proceeded to set out in great length all the circum- 
stances which had given materials for his “ choke,” with the 
successive processes by which he had shaped and perfected it, 
passing on to a recital of the masterpiece itself, and ending up 
by a philosophical analysis of the same, which must have placed 
his pupils in full possession of the point, for they laughed con- 
sura edly. 

“ I tell you zis,” he said, “not to aggustom your minds vith 
frivolity and lightness, but as a lesson in ze gonstruction of ze 
lang witch. If you can choke in Charman, you vill also be able 
to gon verse in Charman.” 

“ Did the German what’s-its-name print your joke?” inquired 
Coggs. 

“ It has not appeared yet,” Herr Stohwasser confessed; “it 
takes a long time to get an imbortant choke like that out in 
print. But I vait— I write to ze editor every veek — and I vait.” 

“Why don’t you put it in your grammar?” suggested Tip- 
ping. 

“ I haf — ze greater part of it — (it vas a long choke, but I gom- 
pressed him). If I haf time; some day I will make anozer liddle 
choke to aggompany, begause I vant my Grammar to be a goot 
Grammar, you understaudt. And now to our Tell. Really you 
people do noding but chatter!” 

All this, of course, had no interest for Mr. Bultitude, but it 
left him free to pursue his own thoughts in peace, and indeed 
this lesson would never have been recorded here, but for two 
circumstances which will presently appear, both of which had 
no small effect on his fortunes. 

He sat nearest the window, and looked out on the pinched 
and drooping laurels in the inclosure, which were damp with 
frost melting in the February sunshine. Over the wall he could 
see the tops of passing vehicles, the country carrier’s cart, the 


VICE VERSA. 


97 


railway parcels van, the fly from the station. He envied even 
the drivers; their lot was happier than his! 

His thoughts were busy with Dick. Oddly enough, it had 
scarcely occurred to him before to speculate on what he might 
be doing in his absence; he had thought chiefly about himself. 
But, now he gave his attention to the subject, what new horrors 
it opened up! What might not become of his well-conducted 
household under the rash r»le of a foolish schoolboy? The of- 
fice, too — who could say what mischief Dick might not be doing 
there, under the cover of his own respectable form? 

Then it might seem good to him any day to smash the 
Garuda stone, and after that there would be no hope of matters 
being ever set right again! 

And yet, miserable coward and fool that he was, with every- 
thing depending upon his losing no time to escape, he could not 
screw up his courage, and say the words that were to set him 
free. 

All at once — and this is one of the circumstances that make 
the German lesson an important stage in this story — an idea 
suggested itself to him quite dazzling by its daring and bril- 
liancy. 

Some may wonder, when they hear what it was, why he never 
thought of it before, and it is somewhat surprising, but by no 
means without precedent. Mark Twain has told us somewhere 
of a ferocious bandit who was confined for sixteen years in soli- 
tary captivity before the notion of escape ever occurred to him. 
When it did, he simply opened the wundow and got out. 

Perhaps a similar passiveness on Mr. Bultitude’s part was due 
to a very natural and proper desire to do everything without 
scandal, and in a legitimate manner; to march out, as it were, 
with the honors of war. Perhaps it was simple dullness. The 
fact remains that it was not till then that he saw a way of recov- 
ering his lost position without the disagreeable necessity of dis- 
closing his position to any one at Crichton House. 

He had still, thank Heaven, the five shillings he had given 
Dick. He had not thrown them away with the other articles in 
his mad passion. Five shillings was not much, but it was more 
than enough to pay for a third-class fare to town. He had only 
to watch his opportunity, slip away to the station, and be at 
home again, defying the usurper, before any one at Crichton 
House had discovered his absence. 

He might go that very day, and the delight of this thought — 
the complete reaction from blank despair to hope — was so in- 
tense that he could not help rubbing his hands stealthily under 
the table, and chuckling with glee at his own readinesss of re- 
source. 

When we are most elated, however, there is always a counter* 


98 VICE VERSA. 

t 

acting agent at hand to bring ns down again to our proper level, 
or below it. The Roman general in the triumph never really 
needed the slave in the chariot to dash his spirits — he had his 
friends there already; the guests at an Egyptian dinner must 
have brought their own skeletons. 

There was a small, flaxen-haired little boy sitting next to Mr. 
Bultitude — seemingly a quiet, inolfensive being — who at this 
stage served to sober him by furnishing another complication. 

“Oh, I say, Bultibude,” he piped shrilly in Paul’s ear, “I 
forgot all about it. Where’s my rabbit?” 

The unreasonable absurdity of such a question annoyed him 
excessively. “Is this a time,” he said, reprovingly, “to talk of 
rabbits? Mind your book, sir.” 

“Oh. I daresay,” grumbled little Porter, the boy in question; 
“it’s all very well, but I want my rabbit.” 

“ Hang it, sir,” said Paul, angrily, “ do you suppose I’m sit- 
ting on it?” 

“You promised to bring me back a rabbit,” persisted Porter, 
doggedly; “you know you did, and it’s a beastly shame. I 
mean to have that rabbit, or know the reason why.” 

At the other end of the table Biddlecomb had dexterously al- 
lured Herr Stoliwasser into the meshes of conversation; 
this time upon the question ( a projyos des bottes ) of street 
performances. “I vill tell you a gurious thing,” he was 
saying “vat happened to me ze ozer day, ven I was 
walking down ze Strandt. I saw a leedle, gommon dirty 
boy, with a tall round hat on him, and he stand in a side 
street right out in ze road, and he take off his tall round hat 
and he put it on ze grount, and he stand still and look so at it. 
So I stop too, to see vat he would do next. And presently he 
take out a large slieet of paper and tear it in four pieces very 
garefully, and stick zern round ze tall round hat, and put it on 
his head again, and zen he set it down on ze grount and look at 
it vonce more, and all ze time he never speak von vort. And I 
look and look and vonder vat he vould do next. And a great growd 
of peoples com, and zey look and vonder too. And zen all at 
once ze leedle dirty boy he take out all ze paper and put on ze 
hat, and he valk avay, laughing altogether foolishly at zomzing 
I did not understand at all. I haf been thinking efer since vat 
in de vorldt he do all zat nonsense for. And zere is von ozer 
gurious thing I see in your London streets zat very same day. 
Zere vas a poor house cat vat had been by a cab overrun as I 
passed by, and von man vith a kind varm heart valk up and 
stamp it on ze head for to end its pain. And anozer man vith 
anozer kind heart he gom up directly and had not seen ze cat 
overrun, but he see ze first man stamping, and he knocked him 
down for ill-treating animals; it vas quite gurious to see; till ze 


VICE VERSA. 


99 


policeman arrest zem both for fighting. Goggs, degline ‘ Katze,’ 
and gif me ze berfect and bast barticijjle of ‘ kampsen,’ to fight.” 
This last relapse into duty was caused by the sudden entrance 
of the doctor, who stood at the door looking on for some time 
with a general air of being intimately acquainted with Schiller 
as an author, before suggesting graciously that it was time to 
dismiss the class. 

Wednesday was a half-holiday at Crichton House, and so, soon 
after dinner, Paul found himself marshaled with the rest in a 
procession bound for the football field. They marched two and 
two, Chawner and three of the other elder boys leading with the 
ball and four goal-posts ornamented with colored calico flags, 
and Mr. Blinkhorn and Mr. Tinkler bringing up the rear. 

Mr. Bultiiude was paired with Tom Grimstone, who, after 
eyeing him askance for some time, could control his curiosity 
no longer. 

“Isay, Dick,” he began, “what’s the matter with you this 
term?” 

“ My name is not Dick,” said Paul, stiffly. 

“Oh^ if you’re so particular then,” said Tom; “but, without 
humbug, what is the matter?” 

“You see a change, then,” said Paul, “you do see a differ- 
ence, eh?” 

“ Rather!” said Tom, expressively. “ You’ve come back what 
I call a beastly sneak, you know, this term. The other fellows 
don’t like it; they’ll send you to Coventry unless you take care.” 

“ I wish they would,” said Paul. 

“ You don’t talk like the same fellow, either,” continued Tom; 
“ you use such fine language, and you’re always in a bait, and 
yet you don’t stick up for yourself as you used to. Look here, 
tell me (we were always chums), is it one of your larks?” 

“ Larks!” said Paul, “ I’m in a fine mood for larks. No, it’s 
not one of my larks.” 

“ Perhaps your old governor has been making a cad of him- 
self, then, and you’re out of sorts about it.” 

“I’ll thank you not to speak about him in that way,” said 
Paul, “in my presence.” 

“ Why, ” grumbled Tom, “I’m sure you said enough about 
him yourself last term. It’s my belief you’re imitating him 
now.” 

“Ah,” said Paul,, “and what makes you think that?” 

“ Why, you go about strutting and swelling just like he did 
when he came about sending you here. I say, do you know 
what ma said about him after he went away?” 

“No,” said Paul, “your mother struck me as a very sensible 
and agreeable woman — if I may say so to her son.” 

“Well, ma said your governor seemed to leave’ you here 


100 


VICE VERSA. 


just like they leave umbrellas at picture galleries, and she be- 
lieved he had a larged-sized money-bag inside him instead of a 
heart.” 

“ Oh!” said Paul, with great disgust, for he had thought Mrs. 
Grimstone a woman of better taste; “ your mother said that, did 
she? Vastly entertaining, to be sure — ha, ha! He would be 
pleased to know she thought that, I’m sure.” 

“ Tell him, and see what he says,” suggested Tom; “he is an 
awful brute to you, though, isn’t he?” 

“If,” growled Mr. Bultitude, “slaving from morning till 
night to provide education and luxury for a thankless brood 
of unprofitable young vipers is ‘being a brute,’ I suppose 
he is.” 

“Why, you’re sticking up for him now!” said Tom. “I 
thought he was so strict with you. Wouldn’t let you have any 
fun at home, and never took you to pantomimes?” 

“ And why should he, sir, why should he? Tell me that. 
Tell me why a man is to be hunted out of his comfortable chair, 
after a well-earned dinner, to go and sit in a hot theater and a 
thorough draught, yawning at the miserable drivel managers 
choose to call a pantomime? Now, in my young days, there 
w&t'e pantomimes. I tell you, sir, I’ve seen ” 

“ Oh, if you’re satisfied, I don’t care!” said Tom, astonished 
at this apparent change of front. “ If you choose to come back 
and play the corker like this, it’s your lookout. Only, if you 
knew what Sproule major said about you just now ” 

“I don’t want to knovv,” said Paul, “it doesn’t concern 
me.” 

“Perhaps it doesn’t concern you what pa thinks, either? Pa 
told ma last night that he was altogether at a loss to know how 
to deal with you, you had come back so queer and unruly. And 
he said, let me see, oh, he said that ‘ if he didn’t see an alteration 
very soon he should resort to more drastic measures ’drastic 
measures is Latin for a whopping.” 

“ Good gracious!” thought Paul. “ I haven’t a moment to lose; 
he might ‘ resort to drastic measures ’ this very evening. I 
can’t change my nature at my time of life. I must run for it, 
soon.” 

Then he said aloud to Tom, “Can you tell me, my — my 
young friend, if, supposing a boy were to ask to leave the 
field — saying, for instance, that he was not well and thought 
he should be better at home — whether he would be allowed to 
go?” 

“Of course he would,” said Tom, “you ought to know that 
by this time. You’ve only to ask Blinkhorn or Tinkler; they’ll 
let you go light enough.” 

Paul saw his course quite clearly now, and was overcome with 


VICE VERSA. 


101 


relief and gratitude. He wrung the astonished Tom’s hand 
warmly; “ Thank you,” he said, briskly and cheerfully, “ thank 
you. I’m really uncommonly obliged to you. You’re a very 
intelligent boy. I should like to give you sixpence.” 

But, although Tom used no arguments to dissuade him, Mr. 
Bultitude remembered his position in time, and prudently re- 
frained from such ill-judged generosity. Sixpences were of vital 
importance now, when he expected to be starting so soon on his 
perilous journey. 

And so they reached the field where the game was to be 
played, and where Paul was resolved to have one desperate 
throw for liberty and home. He was more excited than anxious 
as he thought of it, and it certainly did seem as if all the chances 
were in his favor, and that fortune must have forsaken him, in- 
deed, if anything were allowed to prevent his escape. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

UNBENDING THE BOW. 

“ I pray you give me leave to go from hence, 

I am not well. ” — Merchant of Venice. 

“ He will not blush, that has a father’s heart. 

To take in childish plays a childish part; 

But bends his sturdy back to any toy 

That youth takes pleasure in — to please his boy.” 

The football field was a large one, bounded on two sides by 
tall wooden palings, and on the other two by a hedge and a new 
shingled road, separated from the field by a post and rails. 

Two of the younger boys, proud of their office, raced down to 
the further end to set up the goal-posts. The rest lounged «dly 
about without attempting to begin operations, except the new 
boy Kiffin, who was seen walking apart from the rest, diligently 
studying the “ rules of the game of football,” as laid down in a 
small “ Boy’s Own Pocket Book and Manual of Outdoor Sports,” 
with which he had been careful to provide himself. 

At last Tipping suggested that they had better begin, and 
proposed that Mr. Blinkhorn and himself should toss up for the 
choice of sides, and this being done, Mr. Bultitude presently, to 
his great dismay, heard his name mentioned. “I’ll have young 
Bultitude,” said Tipping; “ he used to play up decently. Look 


102 


VICE VERSA. 


here, you young beggar, you’re on my side, and if you don’t 
play up it will be the worse for you. ” 

It was not worth while, however, to protest, since he would 
so soon be rid of the whole crew forever, and so Paul followed 
Tipping and his train with dutiful submission, and the game 
began. 

It was not a very spirited performance. Mr. Tinkler, who 
was not an athlete, retired at once to the post and rails, on which 
he settled himself to enjoy a railway novel with a highly stimu- 
lating cover. Mr. Blinkhorn, who had more conscientious views 
of his office, charged about vigorously, performing all kinds of 
wonders with the ball, though evidently more from a sense of 
duty than with any idea of enjoyment. 

Tipping occasionally took the trouble to oppose him, but as 
a concession merely, and with a parade of being under no neces- 
sity to do so ; and these two, with a very small following of en- 
thusiasts on either side, waged a private and confidential kind 
of warfare in different parts of the field, while the others made 
no pretence of playing for the present, but strolled about in 
knots, exchanging and bartering the treasures valuable in the 
sight of schoolboys, and gossiping generally. 

As for Paul, he did not clearly understand what “placing up” 
might mean. He had not indulged in football since he was a 
genuine boy, and then only in a rudimentary and primitive form, 
and without any particular fondness for the exercise. But be- 
ing now, in spirit at all events, a precise old gentleman, with a 
decided notion of taking care of himself, he was resolved that 
not even Tipping should compel him to trust his person within 
range of that dirty brown globe, which whistled past his ear or 
seemed spinning toward his stomach with such a hideous sug- 
gestion of a cannon-ball about it. 

All the ghastly instances, too, of accidents to life and limb in 
the football field came unpleasantly into his memory, and he 
saw the inadvisability of mingling with the crowd and allowing 
himself to be kicked violently on the shins. 

So he trotted industriously about at a safe distance in order to 
allay suspicion, while waiting for a good opportunity to put his 
scheme of escape into execution. 

At last he could wait no longer, for the fearful thought oc- 
curred to him that, if he remained there much longer, the doc- 
tor — who, as he knew from Dick, always came to superintend, if 
not to share, the sports of his pupils — might make his appear- 
ance, and then his chance would be lost for the present, for he 
knew too well that he should never find courage to ask permis- 
sion from him. 

With a beating heart he went up to Mr. Tinkler, who was still 


VICE VERSA. 103 

on the fence with his novel, and asked as humbly as he could 
bring himself to do: 

“If you please, sir, will you allow me to go home? I’m — I’m 
not feeling at all Avell.” 

“Not well? What’s the matter with you?” said Mr. Tinkler, 
without looking up. 

Paul had not prepared himself for details, and the sudden 
question rather threw him off his guard. 

“ A slight touch of liver,” he said at length. “It takes me 
after meals sometimes.” 

‘/Liver!” said Mr. Tinkler, “you’ve no right to such a thing 
at your age; it’s all nonsense, you know. Run in and play, 
that’ll set you up again.” 

“ It’s fatal, sir, ” said Paul. “My doctor expressly warned 
me against taking any violent exercise soon after luncheon. If 
you knew what liver is, you wouldn’t say so!” 

Mr. Tinkler stared, as well he might, but making nothing of 
it, and being chiefly anxious not to be interrupted any longer, 
only said: 

“Oh, well, don’t bother me; I dare say it’s all right. Cut 
along!” 

So Mr. Bultitude was free; the path lay open to him now. 
He knew he would have little difficulty in finding his way to the 
station, and, once there, he would have the whole afternoon in 
which to wait for a train to town. 

“I’ve managed that excellently,” he thought, as he ran 
blithely off, almost like the boy he seemed. “Not the slight- 
est hitch. I defy the Fates themselves to stop me now!” 

But the Fates are ladies, and — not of course that it follows — 
occasionally spiteful. It is very rash, indeed, to be ungallant 
enough to defy them— they have such an unpleasant habit of ac- 
cepting the challenge. 

Mr. Bultitude had hardly got clear of .the groups scattered 
about the field, when he met a small flaxen-haired boy, who was 
just coming down to join the game. It was Porter, his neigh- 
bor of tlie German lesson. 

“ There you are, Bultitude, then,” he said, in his squeaky 
voice; “I want you.” 

“I can’t stop,” said Paul, “ I’m in a hurry — another time.” 

“Another time won’t do,” said little Porter, laying hold of 
him by his jacket. “ I want that rabbit.” 

This outrageous demand took Mr. Bultitude’s breath away 
He had no idea what rabbit was referred to, or why he should 
be required to produce such an animal at a moment’s notice. 
This was the second time that an inconvenient small boy had 
interfered between him and liberty. He would not be baffled 
twice. He tried to shake off his persecutor. 


104 


VICE VERSA. 


“ I tell you, my good boy, I haven’t such a thing about me. 
I haven’t, indeed. I don’t even know what you’re talking 
about.” 

This denial enraged Porter. 

“I say, you fellows,” he called out, “ come here! Do make 
Bultitude give me my rabbit. He says he doesn’t know any- 
thing about it now!” 

At this, several of the loungers came up, glad of a distrac- 
tion. 

“What’s the matter?” some of them asked. 

“Why,” whined Porter, “he promised to bring me back a 
rabbit this term, and now he pretends he does not know any- 
thing about it. Make him say what he’s done with it!” 

Mr. Bultitude was not usually ready of resource, but now he 
had what seemed a haj^py thought. 

“ Gad!” he cried, pretending to recollect it, “ so I did — to be 
sure, a rabbit, of course, how could I forget it? It’s — it’s a 
splendid rabbit. I’ll go and fetch it!” 

“Will you,” cried Porter, half relieved. “Where is it, 
then?” 

“ Where?” said Paul, sharply (he was growing positively 
brilliant). “ Why, in my play box, to be sure; where should it 
be?” 

“It isn’t in your playbox, I know,” put in Siggers; “be- 
cause I saw it turned out yesterday, and there was no rabbit 
then. Besides, how could a rabbit live in a playbox? He’s 
telling lies. I can see it by his face. JEe hasn’t any rabbit!” 

“Of course I haven’t!” said Mr. Bultitude. “How should I? 
I’m not a conjurer. It ’s not a habit of mine to go about with 
rabbits concealed on my person. What’s the use of coming to 
me like Ihis? It’s absurd, you know; perfectly absurd!” 

The crowd increased until there was quite a ring formed 
round Mr. Bultitude and the indignant claimant, and presently 
Tipping came bustling up. 

“What’s the row here, you fellows?” he said. “Bultitude 
again, of course. What’s he been doing now?” 

“He had a rabbit he said he was keeping for me,” explained 
little Porter; “and now he won’t give it up or tell me what he’s 
done with it.” 

“He has some mice he ought to give us, too,” said one or 
two new comers, edging their way to the front. 

Mr. Bultitude was, of course, exceedingly annoyed at this un- 
looked-for interruption, and still more by such utterly prepos- 
terous claims on him for animals; however, it was easy to explain 
that he had no such things in his possession, and after that of 
course no more could be said. He was beginning to disclaim 
all liability, when Siggers stopped him. 


VICE VEKSA. 


105 


“ Keep that for the present,” he said. “I say, we ought to 
have a regular trial over this, and get at the truth of it properly. 
Let’s fetch him along to the goal-posts and judge him I” 

He fixed upon the goal-posts as being somehow more formal, 
and, as his proposal was well received, two of them grasped 
Mr. Bultitude by the collar and dragged him along in procession 
to the appointed spot between the two flags, while Siggers fol- 
lowed in what he conceived to be a highly judicial manner, and 
evidently enjoying himself prodigiously. 

Paul, though highly indignar.t, allowed "himself to be led 
along without resistence. It was safest to humor them, for after 
all it would not last long, and vhen they were tired of baiting 
him he would watch his time and slip quietly away. 

When they reached the goal-posts Siggers arranged them in a 
circle, placing himself, the hapless Paul, and his accusers in the 
center. “You chaps had better all be jurymen,” he said. “ I’ll 
be judge, and unless he makes a clean breast of it,” he added, 
with judicial impartiality, “the court will jolly well punch his 
ugly young head ofif.” 

Siggers’ father was an Old Bailey barrister in good and rather 
sharp practice, so that it was clearly the son’s mission to preside 
on this occasion. But ‘unfortunately his hour of office was 
doomed to be a brief one, for Mr. Blinkhorn, becoming aware 
that the game was being still more scantily supported, and 
noticing the crowd at the goal, came up to know the reason of 
it at a long, camel-like trot, his hat on the back of his head, his 
mild face flushed with exertion, and his pebble glasses gleaming 
in the winter sunshine. 

“ What are you all doing here ? Why don’t you join the 
game? I’ve come here to play football with you, and how can 
I do it if you all slink off and leave me to play with myself?” he 
asked, with pathos. 

“Please, sir,” said Siggers, alarmed at the threatened loss of 
his dignity, “ it’s a trial, and I’m judge.” 

“ Yes, sir,” the whole ring shouted together. “ We’re trying 
Bultitude, sir.” 

On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Bultitude was glad of this inter- 
ference. At least justice would be done now, although this 
usher had blundered so unpardonabl/ that morning. 

“ This is childish, you know,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, “ and it’s 
not football. The doctor will be seriously angry if he comes and 
sees you trifling here. Let the boy go. ” 

“ But he’s cheated some of the fellows, sir,” grumbled. Tip- 
ping and Siggers together. 

“ Well, you’ve no right to punish him if he has. Leave him 
to me.” 


106 


VICE VERSA. 


“ Will you see fair play between them, sir? He oughtn’t to 
be let off without being made to keep his word.” 

“If there is any dispute between you and Bultitude,” said 
Mr. Blinkhorn, “I have no objection to settle it — provided it is 
within my province.” 

“ Settle it without me,” said Paul, hurriedly. “ I’ve leave to 
go home. I’m ill.” 

“ Who gave you leave to go home?” asked the master. 

“ That young man over there on the rails,” said Paul. 

“I am the proper person to apply to for leave; you know 
that well enough,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, with a certain cold- 
ness in his tone. “ Now then. Porter, what is all this business 
about?” 

“ Please, sir,” said Porter, “ he told me last term he had a lot 
of rabbits at home, and if I liked he would bring me back a lop- 
eared one and let me have it cheap, and I gave him two shil- 
lings, sir, and sixpence for a hutch to keep it in; and now he 
pretends he doesn’t know anything about it!” 

To Paul’s horror two or three other boys came forward with 
much the same tale. He remembered now that during the holi- 
days he had discovered that Dick was maintaining a sort of ama- 
teur menagerie in his bedroom, and that he had ordered the 
whole of the livestock to be got rid of or summarily de- 
stroyed. 

Now it seemed that the wretched Dick had already disposed 
of it to these clamorous boys, and, what was worse, had stipu- 
lated with' considerable forethought for payment in advance. 
For the first time he repented his paternal harshness. Like 
the netted* lion, a paltry white mouse or two would have set 
him free; but, less happy than the beast in the fable, he had not 
one! 

He trier! to stammer out excuses. 

“It’s extremely unfortunate,” he said, “but the fact is I’m 
not in a position to meet this— this sudden call upon me. Some 
other day, perhaps ” 

“ None of your long words, now,” growled Tipping. (Boys 
h.ate long words as much as even a Saturday Beviewer.) “ Why 
haven’t you brought the rabbits?” 

“ Ye.s.” said Mr. Blinkliorn, “why, having promised to bring 
the rabbits with you, haven't you kept your word? You must 
be able to give some explanation.” 

“Because,” said Mr. Bultitude, wriggling with embarrass- 
ment, “I — that is, my father — found out that my young rascal 
of a son — I mean his young rascal of a son (me, you know) 'was, 
contrary to my express orders, keeping a couple of abominable 
rabbits in his bedroom, and a quantity of filthy little white mice 
which he tried to train to climb up the banisters. And I kept 


VICE VERSA. 


107 


finding the brutes running about my bath-room, and — well, of 
course I put a stop to it; and — no, what am I saying? — my fa- 
ther, of course, he put a stop to it; and, in point of fact, had 
them all drowned in a pail of water.” 

It might be thought that he had an excellent opportunity here 
of avowing himself, but there was the risk that Mr. Blinkhorn 
would disbelieve him, and, with the boys, he felt that the truth 
would do anything but increase his popularity. But dissem- 
bling fails sometimes outside the copy-books, and Mr. Bulti- 
tiide’s rather blundering attempt at it only landed him in worse 
difficulties. 

There was a yell of rage and disappointment from the de- 
frauded ones, who had cherished a lingering hope that young 
Bultitude had those rabbits somewhere, but (like Mr. Barkis 
and his China lemon) found liimself unable to part wdth them 
when the time came to fulfill his contract. And, as contempt 
is a frame of mind highly stimulating to one’s self-esteem, even 
those who had no personal interest in the matter joined in the 
execrations with hearty goodwill and sympathy. 

Why did you let him do it? They were ours, not his. What 
right had your governor to go and drown our rabbits, eh?” they 
cried, wrath fully. 

“ What right?” said Paul. “ Mustn’t a man do as he pleases 
in his own house, then? I — he was not obliged to -see the house 
overrun with vermin, I suppose?” 

But this only made them angrier, and they resented his 
defense with hoots, and groans, and hisses. 

Mr. Blinkhorn meanwhile was pondering the affair conscien- 
tiously. At last he said: ‘‘But you know the doctor would 
never allow animals to be kept in the school, if Bultitude had 
brought them. The whole thing is against the rules, and I shall 
not interfere. ” 

“Ah, but,” said Chawner, “he promised them all to day- 
boarders. The doctor couldn’t object to that, could he, sir?” 

“ True,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, “ true. I was not aware of that. 
Well then, Bultitude, since you are prevented from performing 
what you promised to do, I’m sure you won’t object to do what 
is fair and right in the matter?” 

“ I don’t think I quite follow you,” said Mr. Bultitude. But 
he dreaded what was coming next. 

“ It’s very simple. You have taken money from these boys, 
and if you can’t give them value for it, you ought to return all 
you took from them. I’m sure you see that yourself.” 

“I don’t admit that I owe them anything,” said Paul; “and 
at all events it is highly inconvenient to pay them now.” 

“If your own sense of honor isn’t enough,” said Mr. Blink- 


108 


VICE VERSA. 


horn, “ I must take the matter into my own hands. Let every 
boy who has any claim upon him tell, me exactly what it is.’* 

One boy after another brought forward his claim. One had 
entrusted Dick, it appeared, with a shilling, for which Le was 
to receive a mouse with a “ plum saddle,” and two others had 
invested nine pence each in white mice. With Porter’s half- 
crown, the total came to precisely five shillings — all Paul had 
in the world, the one rope by which he could ever hope to haul 
himself up to his lost pinnacle I 

Mr. Blinkhorn, naturally enough, saw no reason why the 
money, being clearly due, should not be paid at once. “ Give 
me any money you have about you, Bultitude,” he said, “and 
I’ll satisfy your debts with it, as far as it goes.” 

Paul clasped his arm convulsively. “No!” he cried, hoarse- 
ly, “ not that! Don’t make me do that! I — I can’t pay them — 
not now. They don’t understand. If they only give me time 
they shall have double their money back — wagon- loads of rab- 
bits, the best rabbits money can buy — if thev’ll wait. Tell them 
to wait! My dear sir, don’t see me wronged! I won’t pay 
now!” 

“They have waited long enough,” said Mr. Blinkhorn; “you 
must pay them.” 

“I tell you I won’t!” cried Paul; “do you hear? Not one 
sixpence. Oh, if you knew! That infernal Garuda Stone! 
What fools people are!” 

Then in his despair he did the most fatal thing possible. He 
tried to save himself by fiight, and with a violent plunge broke 
through the circle and made for the road which led toward the 
station. 

Instantly the whole school, only too glad of the excitement, 
was at his heels. The unhappy old merchant ran as he had not 
run for a quarter of a century, faster even than he had on his 
first experience of Coggs’ and Coker’s society on that memora- 
ble Monday night. But in spite of his efforts the chase was a 
short one. Chawner and Tipping very soon had him by the 
collar, and brought him back, struggling and kicking out 
viciously, to Mr. Blinkhorn, whose good opinion he had now 
lost forever. 

“Please, sir,” said Chawner, “I can feel something like a 
purse in his pocket. Shall I take it out, sir?” 

“As he refuses to act with common honesty — yes,” said Mr. 
Blinkhorn. 

It was Dick’s purse, of course; and, in spite of Paul’s frantic 
efforts to retain it, it was taken from him, its contents equitably 
divided among the claimants, and the purse itself returned to 
bim^empty. 


VICE VERSA. 


109 


“Now, Biiltitude,” said Mr. Blinkhorn, “if you really wish 
to leave the field, you may.” 

Mr. Bultitude lost what little temper he had yet to lose; he 
fluDg the useless purse from him and broke away from them all 
in a condition little removed from insanity. 

Leave the field! What a mockery the permission was now. 
How was he to get home, a distance of more than fifty miles, 
without a penny in his pockets? Ten minutes before, and: free- 
dom was within his grasp, and now it had eluded him and was 
as hopelessly out of reach as ever. 

No one pitied him; no one understood the real extent of. his 
loss. Mr. Blinkhorn and the few enthusiasts went back to their 
unobtrusive game, while the rest of the school discussed the 
affair in groups, the popular indignation against young Bulti- 
tude*s hitherto unsuspected meanness growing more marked 
every instant. 

It might have even taken some decided and objectionable form 
before long, but when it was at its height there was a sudden 
cry of alarm. “ Cave, you fellows, here’s Grim!” and indeed 
in the far distance the doctor’s portly and imposing figure could 
be seen just turning the corner into the field. 

Mr. Bultitude felt almost cheered. This coming to join his 
pupil’s sports showed a good heart; the doctor would almost 
certainly be in a good humor, and he cheated himself into be- 
lieving that, at some interval in the game, he might perhaps 
find courage to draw near and seek to interest him in his incredi- 
ble woes. 

It was quite extraordinary to see how the game, which had 
hitherto decidedly languished and hung fire, now quickened 
into briskness and became positively spirited. Every one de- 
veloped a hearty interest in it, and it would almost seem as if 
the boys, with more delicacy than they are generally credited 
with, were unwilling to let their master guess how little his in- 
dulgence was really appreciated. Even Mr. Tinkler, whose 
novel had kept him spell-bound on his rail all through the re- 
cent excitement, now slipped it hurriedly into his pocket and 
rushed energetically into the fray, shouting encouragement ra- 
ther indiscriminately to either side, till he had an opportunity 
of finding out privately to which leader he had been assigned. 

Dr. Grimstone came down the field at a majestic slow trot, 
calling out to the players as he came on — “Well done, Mntlow! 
Finely played, sir! Drib ole it along now. Ah, you re afraid of 
it! Run into it, sir, run into it! No running with the ball now, 
Siggers; play without those petty meannesses, or leave the 
game! There, leave the ball to me, will you — leave it to me!” 

And, as the ball had rolled in his direction, he punted it in an 
exceedingly dignified manner, the whole school keeping respect- 


110 


VICE VERSA. 


fully apart, until he had brojiight it to a reasonable distance 
from the goal, when he kicked it through with great solemnity, 
amid faint, and it is to be feared somewhat sycophantic, ap- 
plause, and turned away with the air of a man surfeited of suc- 
cess. 

“For which side did I win that?” he asked presently, where- 
upon Tipping explained that his side had been the favored one. 

“ Well then,” he said, “you fellows must all back me up, or I 
shall not play for you any more:” and he kicked off the ball for 
the next game. 

It w^as noticeable that the party thus distinguished did not 
seem precisely overwhelmed with pleasure at the compliment, 
which, as they knew from experience, implied considerable ex- 
ertion on their part, and even disgrace if they were unsuccess- 
ful. 

The other side, too, looked unhappy, feeling themselves in a 
position of extreme delicacy and embarrassment. For, if they 
2)layed their best; they ran some risk of offending the doctor, or, 
what was worse, drawing him over into their ranks; whil« if, on 
the other hand, they allowed themselves to be too easily worsted, 
they might be suspected of sulkiness and temper — offenses which 
he was very ready to discover and resent. 

Dr. Grimstone for his part enjoyed the exercise, and had no 
idea that he was not a thoroughly welcome and valued play- 
mate. But though it was pleasant to outsiders to see a school- 
master permitting himself to share in the recreations of hi^ pu- 
pils, it must be owned that to the latter the advantages of the 
arrangement seemed something more than dubious. 

Mr. Bultitude being on the side adopted by the doctor, found 
too soon that he was expected to bestir himself. More than 
ever anxious now to conciliate, he did his very best to conquer 
his natural repugnance and appear more interested than alarmed 
as the ball came in his way; but, although (to use a boating ex- 
pression) he “sugared” with some adroitness, he was promptly 
found out, for his son had been a dashing and plucky player. 

It was bitter for him to run meekly about while scathing sar- 
casms and comments on his want of courage were being hurled ? 
at his head. It shattered the scanty remnants of his self-respect, \ 
but he dared not protest or say a single word to open the doc- 
tor's eyes to the injustice he was doing him. 

He was unpleasantly reminded, too, of the disfavor he had ac- 
quired among his companions, by some one or other of them 
running up to him every moment when the doctor’s attention 
was called elsewhere, and startling his nerves by a sly jog or 
pinch, or an abusive epithet hissed viciously into his ears — Chaw- 
ner being especially industrious in this respect. 

And in this unsatisfactory way the afternoon dragged along 


VICE VEKSA. Ill 

until the dusk gathered and the lamps were lighted, and it be- 
came too dark to see goal-posts or ball. 

By the time play was stopped, and the school reformed for 
the march home, Mr. Bultitude felt that he was glad even to get 
back to labor as a relief from such a form of enjoyment. It was 
perhaps the most miserable afternoon he had ever spent in his 
whole easy-going life. In the course of it he had passed from 
brightest hope to utter despair; and now nothing remained to 
him but to convince the doctor, which he felt quite unequal to 
do, or to make his escape without money — which would inevita- 
bly end in a recapture. 

May no one who reads this ever be placed upon the horns of 
such a dilemma! 


CHAPTEE IX. 

A liETTER FROM HOME. 

“ Here are a few of the unpleasantest words 
That ever blotted paper. . , . 

A letter, 

And every word in it a gaping wound.” 

Merchant of Venice, 

If it were not that it was so absolutely essential to the inter- 
est of this story, I think I should almost prefer to draw a veil 
over the sufferings of Mr. Bultitude during the rest of that un- 
happy week at Crichton House ; but it would only be false deli- 
cacy to do so. 

Things went worse and worse with him. The real Dick in his 
most objectionable moods could never have contrived to render 
himself one quarter so disliked and suspected as his substitute 
was by the whole school — master and boys. 

It was in a great measure his own fault, too; for to an ordi- 
nary boy the life there would not have had any intolerable hard- 
ships, if it held out no exceptional attractions. But he w’ould 
not accommodate himself to circumstances, and try, during his 
enforced stay, to get as much instruction and enjoyment as pos- 
sible out of his new life. 

Perhaps, in his position, it would be too much to expect such 
8- thing, and, at all events, it never even occurred to him to at- 
tempt it. He consumed himself instead with inward raging and 


112 


VICE VERSA, 


chafing at his hard lot, and his utter powerlessness to break the 
epell which bound him. 

Sometimes, indeed, he would resolve to bear it no longer, and 
would start up impulsively to impart his misfortunes to some 
one in minor authority — not the doctor; he had given that up 
in resigned despair long since. But, as surely as ever he 
found himself coming to the point, the words would stick fast 
in his throat, and he was only too thankful to get away, with 
his tale untold, on any frivolous pretext that first suggested 
itself. 

This, of course, brought him into suspicion, for such conduct 
had the appearance of a systematic course of practical joking, and 
even the most impartial teachers will sometimes form an un- 
favorable opinion of a particular boy on rather slender grounds, 
and then find fresh confirmation of it in his most insignificant 
actions. 

As for the school generally, his scowls and his sullenness, his 
deficiency in the daring and impudence that had warmed their 
hearts toward Dick, and, above all, his strange knack of getting 
them into trouble — for he seldom received what he considered 
an indignity without making a formal complaint — all this brought 
him as much heaity dislike and contempt as, perhaps, the most 
unsympathetic boy ever earned since boarding-schools were first 
invented. 

The only boy who still seemed to retain a secret tenderness 
for him as the Dick he had once looked up to and admired, Avas 
Jolland, who persisted in believing, and in stating his belief, 
that this apparent change of demeanor was a perverted kind of 
joke on Bultitude’s part, which he would condescend to explain 
some day when it had gone far enough, and he wearied and an- 
noyed Paul beyond endurance by perpetually urging him to 
abandon his ill-judged experiment and discover the point of the 
jest. 

But for Jolland’s help, which he persevered in giving in spite 
of the opposition and unpopularity it brought upon himself, Mr. 
Bultitude would have found it impossible to make any pretense 
of performing the tasks required of him. 

He found himself expected, as a matter of course, to have a 
certain familiarity with Greek paradigms and German conver- 
sation scraps, propositions in Euclid and Latin gerunds, of all 
of which, having had a strict commercial education in his young 
days, he had not so much as heard before his metamorphosis. 
But by carefully copying Jolland’s exercises, and introducing 
enough mistakes of his own to supply the necessary local color, 
he was able to escape to a great degree the discovery of his 
blank ignorance on all these subjects — an ignorance which 


VICE VEESA. 113 

would certainly liave been put down as mere idleness and ob- 
stinacy. 

But it will be readily believed that he lived in constant fear of 
such discovery, and, as it was, his dependence on a little scamp 
like his son’s friend was a sore humiliation to one who had natur- 
aily supposed hitherto that any knowledge he had not hap- 
pened to acquire could only be meretricious and useless. 

He led a nightmare sort of existence for some days, until 
something happened which roused him from his state of passive * 
misery into one more attempt at protest. * 

It was Saturday morning and he had come down to breakfast, ^ . 
after being knocked about as usual in the dormitory over night, 
with a dull wonder how long this horrible state of things could 
possibly be going to last, when he saw on his plate a letter with 
the Paddington post-mark, addressed in a familiar hand — his 
daughter Barbara’s. 

For an instant his hopes rose high. Surely the impostor had 
been found out at last, and the envelope would contain an 
urgent invitation to him to come back and resume his rights — 
an invitation which he might show to the doctor as his best 
apology. 

But when he looked at the address, which was ‘‘Master 
Richard Bultitude,” he felt a misgiving. It was unlikely that 
Barbara would address him thus if she knew the truth; he hesi- 
tated before tearing it open. 

Then he tried to persuade himself that of course she would 
have the sense to keep up appearances for his own sake on the 
outside of the letter, and he compelled himself to open the en- 
velope with fingers that trembled nervously. 

Tlie very first sentences scattered his faint expectations to the 
winds. He read on with staring eyes, till the room seemed to 
rock with him likq a packet-boat, and the sprawling schoolgirl 
handwriting, crossed and recrossed on the thin paper, chauged 
to letters of scorching flame. But perhaps it will be better to 
give the letter in full, so that the reader may judge for himself 
whether it was calculated or not to soothe and encourage the 
exiled one. 

Here it is: 

“ My Dearest DAEiiiNO Dick: I hope you have not been ex- 
pecting a letter from me before this, but I had such lots to tell 
you that I waited till I had time to tell it all at once. For I 
have such new’s for you! You can’t think how pleased you will 
be when you hear it. Where shall I begin? I hardly know, 
for it still seems so funny and strange — almost like a dream — 
only I hope we shall never wake up. 

“I think I must tell you anyhow, just as it comes. Well, 


114 


VICE VEKSA. 


ever since yon went away (how was it yon never came np to say 
good-by to ns in the drawing-room? We couldn’t believe till 
we heard the door shut that you really had driven away without 
another word !) Where am I? Oh, ever since you went away, 
dear papa has been completely changed; you would hardly be- 
lieve it nnless you saw him. He is quite jolly and boyish — 
only fancy! and we are always telling him that he is the biggest 
baby of ns all, but it only makes him laugh. Once, you know, 
he would have been awfully angry if we had even hinted at it. 

“ Do you know, I really think that the real reason he was so 
cross and sharp with us that last week was because you w^ere 
going away; for, now the wrench of parting is over, he is quite 
light-hearted again. You know how he always hates showing 
his feelings. 

“ He is so altered now, you can’t think. He has actually 
only once been up to the city since you left, and then he caihe 
home at four o’clock, and he seems to quite like to have us all 
about him. Generally he stays at home all the morning, and 
plays at soldiers with baby in the dining-room. You would 
laugh to see him loading the cannons with real powder and 
shot, and he didn’t care a bit when some of it made holes in the 
sideboard and smashed the looking-glass. 

“ We had such fun the other afternoon; we played at brig- 
ands — papa and all of us. Papa had the upper conservatory 
for a robber-cave, and stood there keeping guard with your pop- 
gun; and he wouldn’t let the servants go by without a kiss, un- 
less they showed a written pass from us! Miss McFadden 
called in the middle of it, but she said she wouldn’t come in, 
as papa seemed to be enjoying himself so. Boaler has given 
warning, but we can't think why. We have been out nearly 
every evening — once to Hengler’s and once to the Christy Min- 
strels, and last night to the pantomime, where papa was so 
pleased with the clown that he sent round afterward and asked 
him to dine here on Sunday, when Sir Benjamin and Lady Ban- 
gle and Alderman Pish wick are coming. Won’t it be jolly to 
^ see a clown close to? Should you think he’d come in Jiis even- 
ing dress? Miss Mangnall has been given a month’s holiday, be- 
cause papa didn’t like to see us always at lessons. Thmk of 
that! 

“ We are going to have the whole house done up and refur- 
nished at last. Papa chose the furniture for the drawing-room 
yesterday. It is all in yellow satin, wdiich is rather bright, I 
think. I haven’t seen the carpet yet, but it is to match the fur- 
niture; and there is a lovely hearth-rug, with a lion-hunt worked 
on it. 

“But that isn’t the best of it; we are going to have the big 
children’s party, after all! No one but children invited, and 


VICE VEESA. 


115 


every one to do what they like. I wanted so ranch to have you 
home for it, but papa said it would only unsettle you, and take 
you away from your work. 

“ Had Dulcie forgotten you? I should like to see her so 
much. Now I really must leave off, as I am going to the Aquar- 
ium with papa. Mind you write me as good a letter as this is, 
if that old doctor lets you. Minnie and Roly send love and 
kisses, and papa sends his kind regards, and I am to say lie 
hopes you are settling down steadily to work. 

“ With best love, your affectionate sister, 

“BaRBAEA BuiiTITUDE. 

“ P. S. — I nearly forgot to say that Uncle Duke came the 
other day, and has stayed here ever since. He is going to make 
papa’s fortune! I believe by a gold mine he knows about some- 
where, and a steam tramway in Lapland. But I don’t like him 
very much — he is so polite.” 

It would be nothing short of an insult to the reader’s com- 
prehension if I were tc enter into an elaborace explanation of 
the effect this letter had upon Mr. Bultitude. He took it by 
degrees, trying to steady his nerves at each additional item of 
poor Barbara’s well-meant intelligence by a sip at his tin- 
flavored coffee. But when he came to the postscript, in spite of 
its purport being mercifully broken to him gradually by the 
extreme difiiculty of making it out from two undercurrents of 
manuscript, he choked convulsively, and spilled his coffee. 

Dr. Grimstone visited this breach of etiquette wdth stern 
promptness. 

“ This conduct at table is disgraceful, sir — perfectly disgrace- 
ful — unworthy of a civilized being. I have been a teacher of 
youth for many years, and never till now did I have the pain 
of seeing a pupil of mine choke in his breakfast-cup with such 
deplorable ill-breeding. It’s pure greediness, sir, and you will 
have the goodness to curb your indecent haste in consuming 
your food for the future. Your excellent father has frequently 
complained to me, with tears in his eyes, of the impossibility of 
teaching you to behave at meals with common propriety!” 

There was a faint chuckle along the tables, and several drank 
coffee with studied elegance and self -repression, either as a val- 
uable examj^le to Dick, or as a personal advertisement. But 
Paul was in no mood for reproof and instruction. He stood up 
in his excitement, flourishing his letter wdldly. 

“Dr. Grimstone,” he said, “never mind my behavior now. 
I’ve something to tell you. I can’t bear it any longer. I must 
go home at once — at once, sir!” 

There was a general sensation at this, for his manner was per- 
emptory and almost dictatorial. Some thought he would get a 


116 


VICE VEESA. 


licking on the strength of ifc, and most hoped so. But the doc- 
tor dismissed them to the play-ground, keeping Paul back to be 
dealt with in privacy. 

Mrs. Grimstone played nervously with her dry toast at the 
end of the table, for she could not endure to see the boys in 
trouble, and dreaded a scene, while Dulcie looked on with wide, 
bright eyes. 

“Now, sir,” said the doctor, looking up from his marmalade, 
“why must you go home at once?” 

“ I’ve just had a letter,” stammered Paul. 

“No one ill at home, I hope?” 

“No, no,” said Paul, “it’s not that; it’s worse! She doesn’t 
know what horrible things she tells me!” 

“ Who is ‘ she?’ ” said the doctor — and Dulcie’s eyes were 
larger still and her face paled. 

“ I decline to say,” said Mr. Bultitude. It would have been 
absurd to say “ my daughter,” and he had not presence of mind 
just then to transpose the relationships with neatness and suc- 
cess. “ But indeed I am wanted most badly!” 

“What are you wanted for, pray?” 

“Everything!” declared Paul. “It’s all going to rack and 
ruin without me!” 

“ That's absurd,” said the doctor; “you’re not such an im- 
portant individual as all that. Master Bultitude. But let me see 
the letter. ” 

Show him the letter — lay bare all those follies of Dick’s, the 
burden of which he might have to bear himself very shortly — 
never! Besides, what would be the use of it? It would be no 
argument in favor of sending him home — rather the reverse — so 
Paul was obliged to say: 

“ Excuse me. Dr. Grimstone, it is — ah — of a private nature. I 
don’t feel at liberty to show it to any one.’' 

“Then, sir,” said the doctor, with some reason, “if you can’t 
tell me who or what it is that requires your presence at home, 
and decline to show me the letter, which would presumably 
give me some idea on the subject, how do you expect that I am 
to listen to such a preposterous demand, eh? Just tell me 
that!” 

Once more would Paul have given worlds for the firmness 
and presence of mind to state his case clearly and effectively; 
and he could hardly have had a better opportunity, for school- 
masters cannot always be playing the tyrant, and the doctor 
'was, in spite of his attempts to be stern, secretly more amused 
than angry at what seemed a peculiarly precocious piece of 
effrontery. 

But Paul felt the dismal absurdity of his position. Nothing 
he had said, nothing he could say, short of the truth, would 


VICE VERSA. 


117 


avail him, and the truth was precisely what he felt most unable 
to tell. He hung his head resignedly, and held his tongue in 
confusion. 

“Pooh!" said the doctor at last; “let me have no more of 
this tomfoolery, Bultitude. It’s getting to be a positive nui- 
sance. Don’t come to me with any more of these ridiculous 
stories, or some day I shall be annoyed. There, go away, and 
be contented where you are, and try to behave like other peo- 
ple.’’ 

“Contented!” muttered Paul, when out of hearing, as he 
went upstairs and through the empty school-room into the play- 
ground. “ ‘Behave like other people!’ Ah, yes, I suppose I 
shall have to come to that in time. But that letter — Every- 
thing upside down — Bangle asked to meet a common clown! 
That fellow Duke letting me in for gold mines and tramways! 
It’s all worse than I ever dreamed of; and I must stay here and 
be ‘ contented!’ It’s — it’s perfectly damnable!” 

All through that morning his thoughts ran in the same dole- 
ful groove, until the time for work came to an end, and he found 
himself in the playground, and free to indulge his melancholy 
in solitude ; for the others were still loitering about in the school- 
room, and a glass out-house originally intended for a conserva- 
tory, but now devoted to boots and slates, and the books liber- 
ally besmeared with gilt, and telling of the exploits of boy -heroes 
so beloved of boys. 

Mr. Bultitude, only too delighted to get away from them for 
a little while, was leaning against the parallel bars in dull 
despondency, when he heard a rustling in the laurel hedge which 
cut off the house garden from the graveled playground, and 
looking up, saw Dulcie slip through the shrubs and come 
toward him with an air of determination in her proud little 
face. 

She looked prettier and daintier than ever in her gray plush 
hat and warm fur tippet; but, of course, Paul was not of the age 
or in the mood to be much affected by such things — he turned 
his head pettishly away. 

“ It’s no use doing that, Dick,” she said; “ I’m tired of sulk- 
ing. I shan’t sulk any more till I have an explanation.” 

Paul made the sound generally written “Pshaw!” 

“You ought to tell me everything. I will know it. Oh, 
Dick, you might tell me! I always told you anything you want- 
ed to know; and I let mamma think it \^s I broke the clock- 
shade last term, and you know you did it. And I want to know 
something so very badly!” 

“It’s no use coming to me, you know,” said Paul. “I can’t 
do anything for you.” 

“ Yes, you can; you know you can!” said Dulcie, impulsively. 


118 VICE VERSA. 

“ Yon can tell me what was in that letter you had at breakfast — 
and yon shall, too!” 

“What an inquisitive little girl you are!” said Paul, senten- 
tiously. “ It’s not nice for little girls to be so inquisitive — it 
doesn’t look well.” 

“I knew it!” cried Dulcie; “ you don’t want to tell me — be- 
cause- -because it’s from that other horrid girl you like better 
than me. And you promised to belong to me for ever and ever, 
and now it’s all over! Say it isn’t! Oh, Dick, promise to give 
the other girl up. I’m sure she’s not a nice girl. She’s written 
you an unkind letter; now hasn’t she?” 

“ Upon my word,” said Paul, “ this is very forward; at your 
age, too! Why, my Barbara ” 

“ Your Barbara! You dare to call her that? Oh, I knew I 
was right; I will see that letter now. Give it me this instant!” 
said Dulcie, imperiously; and Paul really felt almost afraid of 
her. 

“No, no,” he said, retreating a step or two, “it’s all a mis- 
take; there’s nothing to get into such a passion about — there 
isn’t indeed! And — don’t cry — you’re really a pretty little girl. 
I only wish I could tell you everything; but you’d never be- 
lieve me!” 

“ Oh, yes, I would, Dick!” protested Dulcie, only too willing 
to be convinced of her boy-lover’s constancy; “I’ll believe any^ 
thing, if you’ll only tell me. And I’m sorry I was so angry. 
Sit down by me and tell me from the very beginning. I prom- 
ise not to interrupt.” 

Paul thought for a moment. After all, why shouldn’t he? It 
was much pleasanter to tell his sorrows to her pretty little ear 
and hear her childish wonder and pity than face her terrible 
father — he had tried that. And then she might tell her mother; 
and so his story might reach the doctor’s ears after all, without 
further effort on his part. 

“Well,” he said at last, “I think you’re a good-natured little 
girl; you won’t laugh. Perhaps I will tell you!” 

So he sat down on the bench by the wall, and Dulcie, quite 
happy again now at this proof of good faith, nestled up against 
him confidingly, waiting for his first words with parted lips and 
eager, sparkling eyes. 

“Not many days ago,” began Paul, “I was somebody very 
different from ” 

“Oh, indeed,” said, fl jarring, sneering voice close by; “was 
you?” And he looked up and saw Tipping standing over him 
with a plainly hostile intent. 

“Go away, Tipping,” said Dulcie; “we don’t want you. 
Dick is telling me a secret.” 

“He’s very fond of telling, I know,” retorted Tipping, “If 


VICE VERSA. 


119 


YOU knew what a sneak he was you’d have nothing to do with 
Lim, Dulcie. I could tell you things about him that ” 

“He’s not a sneak,” said Dnlcie. “Are you, Dick? Why 
don*^t you go, Tipping? Never mind what he says, Dick; go on 
as if he wasn’t there. I don’t care what he says!” 

It was a most unpleasant situation for Mr. Bultitude, but he 
did not like to offend Tipping. “ 1 — I think — some other time, 
perhaps,” he said, nervously. “Not now.” 

“ An, you’re afraid to say what you were going to say now 
I’m here,” said the amiable Tipping, nettled by Dulcie’s little 
air of haughty disdain. “ You’re a coward; you know you are. 
You pretend to think such a lot of Dulcie here, but you daren’t 
fight!” 

“Fight!” said Mr. Bultitude. “Eh, wdiat for?’^ 

“Why, for her, of course. You can’t care much about her if 
you daren’t fight for her. I want to show her who’s the best 
man of the two!” 

“I don’t want to be shown,” wailed poor Dulcie, piteously, 
clinging to the reluctant Paul; “I know. Don’t fight with him, 
Dick. I say you’re not to.” 

. “Certainly not!” said Mr. Bultitude, with great decision. 
“I shouldn’t think of such a thing!” and he rose from the 
bench and was about to walk away, when Tipping suddenly 
pulled off his coat and began to make sundry demonstrations 
of a martial nature, such as dancing aggressively toward his 
rival and clinching his fists. 

By this time most of the other boys had come down into the 
playground, and were looking on with great interest. There 
was an element of romance in this promised combat which gave 
it additional attractions. It was like one of the struggles be- 
tween knightly champions in the Waverley novels. Several of 
them ‘vould have fought till they couldn’t see out of their e^^es 
if it Wou*d have given them the least chance of obtaining 
fa^'^o? in Dulcie’s sight, and they all envied Dick, who was the 
only boy that was not unmercifully snubbed by their capricious 
little princess. 

Paul alone was blind to the splendor of his privileges. He 
examined Tipping carefully, as the latter w^as still assuming a 
hostile attitude and chanting a sort of war-cry supposed to be an 
infallible incentive to strife. “Yah, you’re afraid!” he sang 
very offensively. “I wouldn’t be afraid! Cowardy, cow^ardy, 
custard!” 

“Pooh!” said Paul, at last; “ go away, sir, go away!” 

“ Go away, '^h?” jeered Tipping. “Who are you to tell me 
to go away? Go away yourself!’* 

“ Cei^tainly,” said Paul, only too happy to oblige. But he 
found jimsell prevented by a ring of excited backers. 


120 


VICE VERSA. 


“Don’t funk it, Dick!” cried some, forgetting recent ill-feel- 
ing in the necessity for partisanship. “ Go in and settle him as 
you did that last time. I’ll send you. You can do it!” 

“Don’t hit each other in the face,’^ pleaded Dulcie, who had 
got upon a bench and was looking down into the ring — not, if 
the truth must be told, without a certain pleasurable excitement 
in the feeling that it was all about her. 

And now Mr. Bultitude discovered that he was seriously ex- 
pected to fight this great hulking boy, and that the sole reason 
for any disagreement was an utterly unfounded jealousy respect- 
ing this little girl Dulcie. He had not a grain of chivalry in his 
disposition — chivalry being an eminently unpractical virtue — 
and naturally he saw no advantage in letting himself be mauled 
for the sake of a child younger than his own daughter. 

Dulcie’s appeal enraged Tipping, who took it as addressed 
solely to himself. “ You ought to be glad to stick up for her,” 
he said between his teeth. “I’ll mash you for this — see if I 
don’t!” 

Paul thought he saw his way clear to disabuse Tipping of his 
mistaken idea. “Are you proposing,” he asked, politely, “to — 
to ‘ mash ’ me on account of that little girl there on the seat?’! 

“You’ll soon see,” growled Tipping. “Shut your head, and 
come on!” 

“No, but I want to know,” persisted Mr. Bultitude. “Be- 
cause,” he said, with a sickly attempt at jocularity which de- 
lighted none, “ you see, I don’t want to be mashed. I’m not a 
jjotato. If I understand you aright, you want to fight me be- 
cause you think me likely to interfere with your claim to that 
little girl’s — ah — affections?” 

“ That’s it,” said Tipping, grufiiy; “ so you’d better waste no 
more words about it, and come on.” 

“ But I don’t care about coming on,” protested Paul, earnestly. 
“It’s all a mistake. I’ve no doubt she’s a very nice little girl, 
but I assure you, my good boy, I’ve no desire to stand in your 
way for one instant. She’s nothing to me — nothing at all! I 
give her up to you. Take her, young fellow, with my blessing! 
There, now, that’s all settled comfortably — eh?” 

He was just looking around with a self-satisfied and relieved 
air, when he began to be aware that his act of frank unselfish- 
ness was not as much appreciated as it deserved. Tipping, indeed, 
looked baffled and irresolute for one moment, but a low murmur 
of disgust arose from the bystanders, and even Jolland declared 
that it was “too beastly mean.” 

As for Dulcie, she had been looking on incredulously at her 
champion’s unaccountable tardiness in coming to the point. 
But this public repudiation was too much for her. She gave a 
little low cry as she heard the shameless words of recantation, 


VICE VERSA. 


121 


and then, without a word, jumped lightly down from her bench 
and ran away to hide herself somewhere and cry. 

Even Paul, though he knew that he had done nothing but 
what was strictly right, and had acted purely in self-protection, 
felt unaccountably ashamed of himself as he saw the effect of 
his speech. But it was too late now. 




CHAPTER X. 

THE COMPLETE LETTER- WRITER. 

“ Accelerated by ignominious shovings — nay, as it is written, by smit- 
ings, twitchings, spurnings, a posteriori^ not to be named .” — French 
Be volution. 

“ This letter being so excellently ignorant will breed no terror in the 
youth. ” — Twelfth Night. 

Mr. Bultitude had meant to achieve a double stroke of diplo- 
macy — to undeceive Dulcie and conciliate the love-sick Tipping. 
But, whatever his success may have been in the former respect, 
the latter object failed conspicuously. 

“You sha’n’t get off by a shabby trick like that,” said Tip- 
ping, exasperated by the sight of Dulcie’s emotion; “you’ve 
made her cry now, and you shall smart for it. So, now, are 
you going to stand up to me like a man, or will you take a kick- 
ing?” 

“ Pm not going to help you to commit a breach of the peace,” 
said Paul, with great dignity. “Go away, you quarrelsome 
young ruffian! Get one of your schoolfellows to fight you, if 
you must fight. I don’t want to be mixed up with you in any 
way.” 

But at this Tipping, whose blood was evidently at boiling 
point, came prancing down on him in a Zulu-like fashion, swing- 
ing his long arms like a windmill, and, finding that his enemy 
made no attempt at receiving him, but only moved aw^ay appre- 
hensively, he seized him by the collar, as a prelude to dealing 
him a series of kicks behind. 

Although Mr. Bultitude, as w'e have seen, ■was opposed to 
fighting as a system, he could not submit to this sort of thing 
without at least some attempt to defend himself ; and, judging 
it of the highest importance to disable his adversary in the most 
effectual manner before the latter had time to carry out his offensive 


122 


VICE VERSA. 


designs, he turned sharply round and hit him a very severe 
blow in the lower part of liis waistcoat. 

The result fulfilled his highest expectations. Tipping col- 
lapsed like a pocket-rule, and staggered away speechless and 
purple with pain, while Paul stood calm and triumphant. He 
diad shown these fellows that he wasn’t going to stand any non- 
sense. They would leave him alone after this, perhaps. 

But once more there were cries and murmurs of “Shame!” 

. “No hitting below the belt!” “ Cad — coward!” 

* It appeared that, somehow, he had managed to offend their 
prejudices even in this. “ It’s very odd,” he thought; “when 
I didn’t light they called me a coward, and now when I do, I 
don’t seem to have pleased them much. I don’t care, though. 
I’ve settled 

But, after a season of protracted writhing by the parallel bars, 
Tipping came out, still gasping and deadly pale, leaning on Bid- 
dlecomb’s shoulder, and was met with universal sympathy and 
condolence. 

“Thanks!” he said, with considerable effort. “Of course — 
I’m not going — to fight him* after a low trick like that; but per- 
haps you fellows will see that he doesn’t escape quite as easily 
as he fancies?” 

There was a general shout. “No; he shall pay for it! We’ll 
teach him to fight fair! Well see if he tries that on again!” 

Paul heard it with much uneasiness. What new deviltry were 
they about to practice upon him? He was not left long in 
doubt. 

“ I vote,” suggested Biddlecomb, as if he were proposing a 
testimonial, “ we make him run the gauntlet. Grim won’t come 
out and catch us. I saw him go out for a drive an hour ago.” 
And the idea was very favorably entertained. 

Paul had heard of “running the gauntlet,’^ and dimly sus- 
pected that it was not an experience he was likely to enjoy, ])ar- 
ticularly when he saw every one busying himself with tying 
the end of his pocket handkerchief into a hard knot. He tried 
in vain to excuse himself, declaring again and again that he had 
never meant to injure the boy. He had only defended himself, 
and was under the impression that he was at perfect liberty to hit 
him wherever he could, and so on. But they were in no mood 
for excuses. 

With a stern magisterial formality worthy of a Vehm-Gericht, 
they formed in two long lines down thefcenter of the playground; 
and while Paul was still staring in wonder at what this strange 
maneuver might mean, somebody pounced upon him and car- 
ried him up to one end of the ranks, where Tipping had by this 
time sufficiently recovered to be able to “set him going,” as he 
chose to call it, with a fairly effective kick. 


VICE VERSA. 


123 


After that he had a confused sense of flying madly along the 
double line of avengers under a hail of blows which caught him 
on every part of his head, shoulders, and back, till he reached 
the end, where he was dexterously turned and sent spinning up 
to Tipping again, who, in his turn, headed him back on his ar- 
rival, and forced him to brave the terrible lane once more. 

Never before had Mr. Bultitude felt so sore and insulted. 
But they kept it up long after the thing had lost its first fresh- 
ness — until at last exhaustion made them lean to mercy, and 
they cuffed him ignominiously into a corner, and left him to 
lament his ill-treatment there till the bell rang for dinner, for 
which, contrary to precedent, his recent violent exercise had 
excited little aiipetite. 

“ I shall be killed soon if I stay here,” he moaned; “ I know 
I shall. These young brigands would murder me cheerfully, if 
they were not afraid of being caned for it. I’m a miserable old 
man, and I wish I was dead!’’ 

Although that afternoon, being Saturday, was a half-holiday, 
Mr. Bultitude was spared the ordeal of another game of foot- 
ball; for a smart storm of rain and sleet, coming on about three 
o’clock, kept the school — not altogether unwilling prisoners — 
within doors for the day. 

The boys sat in their places in their schoolroom, amusing 
themselves after their several fashions — some reading, some 
making libelous copies of drawings that took their fancy in the 
illustrated papers, some playing games; others, too listless to 
1)1 ay and too dull to find pleasure in the simplest books, filled 
up the time as well as they could by quarreling and getting into 
various depths of hot water. Paul sat in a corner pretending to 
read a story relating the experiences of certain infants of 
phenomenal courage and coolness in the Arctic regions. They 
killed bears and tamed walruses all through the book; but for 
the first time, perhaps, since their appearance in print, their 
exploits fell flat. Not, however, tliat this reflected any discredit 
upon the author’s powers, which .are justly admired by all 
healthy-minded boys; but it was beyond the power of literature 
just then to charm Mr. Bultitude’s thoughts from the recollec- 
tion of his misfortunes. 

As he took in all the details of his surroundings — the warm, 
close room; the raw-toned desks and tables at which a rabble of 
unsympathetic boys were noisily whispering and chattering, 
with occasional glances in his direction, from which, taught by 
experience, he augured no good; the higli, uncurtained win- 
dows, blurred wutli little stars of half-frozen rain, and the bare, 
bleak branches of the trees outside tossing drearily against a 
low, leaden sky — he tried in vain to cheat himself into a 
dreamy persuasion that all* his misery could not be real, but 


124 VICE VERSA. 

would fade away as suddenly and mysteriously as it had stolen 
upon him. 

Toward the close of the afternoon the doctor came in and 
took his place at the writing-table, where he was apparently 
very busy with the composition of some sort of document, which 
he finished at last with evident satisfaction at the result of his 
labor. Then he observed that, according to their custom of a 
Saturday afternoon, the hour before tea-time should be devoted 
to “writing home.” 

So the books, chess-boards, and dominoes were all put away, 
and a new steel pen and a sheet of note paper, neatly embossed 
with the heading “ Crichton House School ” in old English let- 
ters, having been served out to every one, each boy prepared 
himself to write down such things as filial affection, strict truth- 
fulness, and the desire of imparting information might inspire 
between them. 

Paul felt, as he clutched his writing materials, much as a 
shipwrecked mariner might be expected to do at finding on his 
desolate island a good-sized flag and a case of rockets. His 
hopes revived once more; he forgot the smarts left by the 
knots in the handkerchiefs; he had a whole hour before him — 
it was possible to set several wires in motion for his release in an 
hour. 

Yes, he must write several letters. First, one to his solicitor, 
detailing, as calmly and concisely as his feelings would allow, 
the shameful way in which he had been treated, and imploring 
him to take measures of some sort for getting him out of his 
false and awkward position; one to his head clerk, to press upon 
him the necessity of prudence and caution in dealing with the 
imposter; notes to Bangle and Fishwick putting them off — they 
should not be outraged by an introduction to a vulgar panto- 
mime clown under his roof; and, lastly (this was an outburst he 
could not deny himself), a solemn, impressive appeal to the 
common humanity, if not to the ordinary filial instincts, of his 
un dutiful son. 

His fingers tingled to begin. Sentences of burning, indig- 
nant eloquence crowded confusedly into his head — he would 
write such letters as would carry instant conviction to the 
most ])ractical and matter-of-fact minds. The x^athos and dig- 
nity of his remonstrances should melt even Dick’s selfish, callous 
heart. 

Perhaps he overrated the power of his pen — perhaps it would 
have required more than mere ink to jiersuade his friends to 
disbelieve their own senses, and see a portly citizen of nearly 
sixty X)acked into the frame of a chubby urchin of fourteen. 
But, at all events, no one’s faith was put to so hard a test — those 
letters were never written. 


VICE VERSA. 


125 


“Don’t begin to write yet, any of you,” said the Doctor; “ I 
have a few words to say to you first. In most cases, and as a 
general rule, I tliink it wisest to let every boy commit to paper 
whatever his feelings may dictate to him. I wish to claim no 
censorship over the style and diction of your letters. But there 
have been so many complaints lately from the parents of some 
of the less advanced of you, that I find myself obliged to make 
a change. Your father particulariy, Richard Bultitude,” he 
added, turning suddenly upon the unlucky Paul, “ has com- 
plained bitterly of the slovenly tone and p lirasing of your cor- 
respondence: he said, very justly, that they would disgrace 
a stable-boy, and, unless I could induce you to improve it, he 
begged he might not be annoyed by it in future.” 

It was by no means the least galling part of Mr. Bultitude’s 
trials, that forgotten words and deeds of his in his original con- 
dition were constantly turning up at critical seasons, and plung- 
ing him deeper into the morass just when he saw some prospect 
of gaining firm ground. 

So now, he did remember that, being in a more than usually 
bad temper one day last year, he had, on receiving a sprawling, 
ill-spelt application from Dick for more pocket money, to buy 
fire-works for the 5th of November, written to make some such 
complaint to the schoolmaster. He waited anxiously for the doc- 
tor’s next words; he might want to read the letters before they 
were sent off, in which case Paul would not be displeased, for it 
would be an easier and less dangerous way of putting the doctor 
in possession of the facts. 

But his complaints were to be honored by a much more effect- 
ual remedy, for it naturally piqued the doctor to be told that 
boys instructed under his auspices wrote like stable-boys. 

“ However,” he went on, “ I wish your people at home to be 
assured from time to time of your welfare, and, to prevent them 
from being shocked and distressed in future by the crudity of 
your communications, I have drawn up a short form of letter 
for the use of the lower boys in the second form — which I shall 
now proceed to dictate. Of course, all boys in the first form, 
and all in the second above Bultitude and Jolland, will write as 
they please as usual. Richard, I expect you to take particular 
pains to wu-ite this out neatly. Are you all ready? Very well 
then . . . now;” and he read out the following letter, 

slowly : 

“My dear Parents (or parent, according to circumstances) 
comma ” (all of which several took down most industriously) — 
“You will be rejoiced to hear that, having arrived with safety 
at our destination, we have by this time fully resumed our cus- 
tomary regular round of earnest work, relieved and sweetened 


126 


VICE VERSA. 


by hearty play. (Have you all got ‘ hearty play ’ down in- 
quired the doctor, rather suspiciously, while Jolland observed 
in an undertone that it would take some time to get that down.) 
“ I hope, I trust I may say without undue conceit, to have made 
considerable progress in my school-tasks before I rejoin the 
family circle for the Easter vacation, as I think you will admit 
when I inform you of the programme we intend*’ (“D. V. in 
brackets and capital letters ” — as before, this was taken down 
verbatim by Jolland, who probably knew very much better) 
“ to work out during the term. 

“In Latin, the class of which I am a member propose to thor- 
oughly master the first book of Virgil’s magnificent Epic; need 
I say I refer to the soul-moving story of the Pious ^neasV” 
(Jolland was understood by his near neighbor to remark that he 
thought the explanation distinctly advisable,) “ while in Greek 
we have already commenced the thrilling account of the ‘ Ana- 
basis ’ of Xenophon, that master of strategy! nor shall we, of 
course, neglect in either branch of study the syntax and con- 
struction of those two noble languages ” — (“ noble languages,” 
echoed the writers mechanically, contriving to insinuate a touch 
of irony into the words). 

“ In German, under the able tutelage of Herr Stohwasser. 
who, as I may possibly have mentioned to you in casual conver- 
sation, is a graduate of the University of Heidelberg” (“and a 
silly old hass,” added Jolland, parenthetically), “ we have re- 
signed ourselves to the spell of the Teutonian Shakespeare ’* 
(there was much difference of opinion as to the manner of spell- 
ing the “Teutonian Shakespeare”), “as, in my opinion, Schil- 
ler may be not unaptly termed; and our French studies com- 
prise such exercises, and short poems and’ tales, as are best 
calculated to afford an insight into the intricacies of the Gallic 
tongue. 

“But I would not have you imagine, my dear parents (or pa- 
rent, as before), that, because the claims of the intellect have 
been thus amply provided for, the requirements of the body are 
necessarily overlooked! 

“I have no intention of becoming a mere bookworm, and, on 
the contrary, we have had one excessively brisk and pleasant 
game of football already this season, and should, but for the 
unfortunate inclemency of the weather, have engaged again this 
afternoon in the mimic warfare. 

“ 111 the playground our favorite diversion is the game of 
‘ chevy,’ so called from that engagement famed in ballad and 
history (I allude to the battle of Chevy Chase), and, indeed, my 
dear parents, in the rapid alternations of its fortunes and the 
diversity of its incident, the game (to my mind) bears a striking 
resemblance to the accounts of that ever-memorable contest. 


VICE VERSA. 


127 


“I fear I must now relinquish my pen, as the time allotted 
for correspondence is fast waning to its close, and tea-time is 
approaching. Pray gi\e my kindest remembrances to all my 
numei'ous friends and relatives, and accept my fondest love and 
alfection for yourselves, and the various other members of the 
family circle. 

“lam, I am rejoiced to say, in the enjoyment of excellent 
health, and, surrounded as I am by congenial companions, and 
employed in interesting and agreeable pursuits, it is superflu- 
ous to add that I am happy. 

“And now, ray dear parents, believe me, your dutiful and 4. 
affectionate son, so and so. ” 

Tlie doctor finished his dictation with a roll in his voice, as 
much as to say: “I think that will strike your respective pa- 
rents as a chaste and classical composition; I think sol” 

But, unexceptionable as its tone and sentiments undoubtedly 
were, it was far from expressing the feelings of Mr. Bultitude. 
The rest accepted it not unwillingly as an escape from the fa- 
tigue of original composition, but to him the neat, well-bal- 
anced sentences seemed a hollow mockery. As he wrote down 
each successive phrase, he wondered what Dick would think of 
it, and, when at last it was finished, the precious hour had gone 
for another week ! 

In speechless disgust, but without protest, for his spirit was 
too broken by this last cruel disappointment, he had to fold, 
put into an envelope, and direct this most misleading letter un- 
der the doctor’s superintending eye, which, of course, allowed 
him no chance of introducing a line or even a word to counter- 
act the tone of self-satisfaction and contentment which breathed 
in every sentence of it. 

He saw it stamped, and put into the postbag, and then his 
last gleam of hope flickered out; he must give up struggling 
against the Inevitable; he must resign himself to be educated, 
and perhaps flogfred here, while Dick was filling his house with 
clowns and pantaloons, destroying his reputation and damaging 
his credit at home. Perhaps, in course of time, he would grow 
accustomed to it, and, meanwhile, he would be as careful as 
possible to do and say nothing to make himself remarkable in 
any way, by which means he trusted, at least, to avoid any fresh 
calamity. 

And with this resolution he went to bed on Saturday night, 
feeling that this was a dreary finish to a most unpleasant week. 


128 


VICE VERSA. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A DAY OF BEST. 

“There was a letter indeed to be intercepted by a man’s father to do 

him good with him !” — Every Man in His Humor, 

“"I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter, 

Sent to my son ; nor leave t’ admire the change 
Of manners, and the breeding of our youth 
Within the kingdom, since myself was one.” — Ibid. 

Sunday came — a day which was to begin a new week* for Mr. 
Bultitude, and, of course, for the rest of the Christian world as 
well. Whether that week would be better or worse than the 
one which had just passed away he naturally could not tell; it 
could hardly be much worse. 

But the Sunday itself, he anticipated — without, however, any 
very firm grounds for such an assumption — would be a day of 
brief but grateful respite; a day on which he miglit venture to 
claim much the same immunity as was enjoyed in the old da^s 
by‘the insolvent; a day, in short, which would glide slowly by 
with the rather drowsy solemnity peculiar to the British Sab- 
bath, as observed by all truly respectable persons. 

And yet that very Sunday, could he have foreseen it, was des- 
tined to be the most eventful day he had yet spent at Crichton 
House, where none had proved wanting in incident. During the 
next twelve hours he was to pass through every variety of \m- 
pleasant sensation. Embarrassment, suspense, fear, anxiety, dis- 
may and terror, were to follow each other in rapid succession, 
and to wind up, strangely enough, with a delicious ecstasy of 
pure relief and happiness — a fatiguing programme for any mid- 
dle-aged gentleman who had never cultivated his emotional 
faculties. 

Let me try and tell you how this came about. The getting- 
up bell rang an hour later than on week days, but the boys were 
exj>ected to prepare certain tasks suitable for the day before they 
rose. Mr. Bultitude found that he was required to learn by 
heart a hymn in which the rhymes “join” and “divine,” 
“throne” and “crown,” were so happily wedded that either 
might conform to the other — a graceful concession to individual 
taste which is not infrequent in this class of poetry. Trivial as 
such a task may seem in these days of school boards, it gave 
him infinite trouble and mental exertion, for he had not been 
called upon to commit anything of the kind to memory for many 
years, and after mastering that, there still remained a long chro- 


VICE VERSA. 


129 


nological list (the dates approximately computed) of the leading 
vvents before and immediately after the Deluge, which was to 
be repeated “without looking at the book.” 

Wliile he was wrestling desperately with these — for he was 
determined, as I have said before, to do all in his power to 
keep himself out of trouble — Mrs. Grimstone, in her morning 
wrapper, paid a visit to the dormitories, and in spite of all Paul’s 
attempts to excuse himself, insisted upon pomatuming his hair, 
• ui indignity which he felt acutely. 

’ “When she knows who I really am,” he thought, “she’ll be 
sorry she made such a point of it. If there’s one thing upon 
earth I loathe more than another, it’s marrow-oil pomade!” 

Then there was breakfast, at which Dr. Grimstone appeared, 
resplendent in glossy broadcloth, dazzling shirt-front and semi- 
clerical white tie, and after breakfast, an hour in the school- 
room, during which the boys (by the aid of repeated references 
to the text) wrote out ^‘from memory” the hymn they had 
learned, while Paul managed somehow to stumble through his 
dates and events to the satisfaction of Mr. Tinkler, who, to in- 
crease his popularity, made a point of being as easily satisfied 
with such repetitions as he decently could. 

After that came the order to prepare for church. There was 
a general rush tc^ the little room with the shelves and band- 
boxes, where church books were procured, and great coats and 
tight kid gloves put on. 

When they were almost ready the doctor came in, wearing 
his blandest and most paternal expression. 

“Ah — it’s a collection Sunday to-day, boys,” he said. “Have 
you all got your threepenny-bits ready? I like to see my boys 
give cheerfully and liberally of their abundance. If anybody 
does not happen to have any small change, I can accomrnodate 
him if he comes to me.” 

And this he proceeded to do from a store he had with him of 
that most convenient coin — the chosen expression of a congre- 
gation’s gratitude — the common silver threepence, for the school 
occupied a prominent position in the church, and had acquired 
a great reputation among the church wardens for the admirable 
uniformity with which one young gentleman after another “ put 
into the plate;” and this reputation the doctor was naturally 
anxious that they should maintain. 

1 am sorry to say that Mr. Bultitude, fearing lest he should 
be asked if he had the required sum about him, and thus his 
penniless condition might be discovered and bring him trouble, 
got behind the door at the beginning of the money-changing 
transactions, and remained there till it was over; it seemed to 
him that it would be too paltry to be disgraced for want of three- 
pence. 


130 


VICE VERSA. 


Now, being thus completely furnished for their devotions, 
the school formed in couples in the hall and filed solemnly out 
for the march to church. 

Mr. Bultitude walked nearly last with Jolland, whose facile 
nature had almost forgotten his friend’s shortcomings on the 
previous day. He kept up a perpetual flow of chatter, which, 
as he never stopped for an answer, permitted Paul to indulge 
his own thoughts unrestrained. 

“Are you going to put your threepenny-bit in?” said Jolland; 
“ I won’t if you don’t. Sometimes, you know, when the plate 
comes round, old Grim squints down the pews to see we don’t 
shirk. Then I put in sixpence. Have you done your hymn? 
I do hate a hymn. What’s the use of learning hymns? They 
won’t mark you for them, you know, in any exam. lever heard 
of, and it can’t save you the expense of a hymn-book unless you 
learned all the hymns in it, and that would take you years. Oh, 
I say, look! there’s young Mutlow and his governor and mater. 
I wonder what Mutlow ’s governor does? Mutlow says he’s a 
‘gentleman ’ if you ask him, but I believe he lies. See that fly 
driving past? Mother Grim ” (the irreverent youth always 
spoke of Mrs. Grimstone in this way) “and Dulcie are in it. I 
saw Dulcie look at you, Dick. It’s a shame to treat her as you 
did yesterday. There’s young Tom on the box; don’t his ears 
stick out rummily? I wonder if the ‘ ugly family ’ will be at 
church to-day? You know the ugly family; all with their 
mouths open and their eyes goggling, like a jolly old row of 
pantomime heads. And oh, Dick, suppose Connie Davenant’s 
people have changed their pew — that’ll be a sell for you rather, 
won’t it?” 

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Bultitude, stiffly; “and, 
if you don’t object, I prefer not to be called upon to talk just 
now. ” 

“ Oh, all right!” said Jolland; “ there aren’t so many fellows 
who will talk to you; but just as you please — I don’t want to 
talk.” 

And so the pair walked on in silence; Jolland, with his nose 
in the air, determined that after this he really must cut his for- 
mer friend, as the other fellows had done, since his devotion 
was appreciated so little, and Paul, watching the ascending 
double line of tall chimpey-pot hats as they surged before him 
in regular movement, and feeling a dull wonder at finding him- 
self setting out to church in such ill-assorted company. 

They entered the church, and Paul was sent down to the ex- 
treme end of a pew next to the one reserved for the doctor and 
his family. Dulcie was sitting there already on the other side 
of the partition; but she gave no sign of having noticed his 


YICE VERSA. 131 

arrival, being apparently absorbed in studying tbe rose- window 
over the altar. 

He sat down in his corner with a sense of rest and almost 
comfort, though the seat was not a cushioned one. He had the 
in offensive Kifiin for a neighbor, his chief torm enters were- far 
away from him in one of the back pews, and here at least, he 
thought, no harm could come to him. He could allow himself 
safely to do what I am afraid he generally did do under the cir- 
cumstances — snatch a few intermittent but sweet periods of 
dreamless slumber. 

But, while the service was proceeding, Mr. Bultitude was 
suddenly horrified to observe that a young lady, who occupied 
a pew at right angles to and touching that in which he sat, was 
deliberately making furtive signals to him in a most unmistak- 
able manner. 

She was a decidedly pretty girl of about fifteen, with merry 
and daring blue eyes and curling golden hair, and was accom- 
panied by two small brothers (who shared the same book, and 
dealt each other stealthy and vicious kicks throughout the ser- 
vice), and by her father, a stout, short-sighted old gentleman in 
gold spectacles, who was perpetually making the wrong re- 
sponses in a loud and confident tone. 

To 1x5 signaled to in a marked manner by a strange young 
lady of great personal attractions might be a coveted distinction 
to other schoolboys, but it simply gave Mr. Bultitude cold 
thrills. 

“ I supx)ose that’s ‘ Connie Davenant,’ ” he thought, shocked 
beyond measure as she caught his eye and coughed demurely 
for about the fourth time. “A very forward young person! I 
think somebody ought to speak seriously to her father.” 

“ Good gracious! she’s writing something on the fly-leaf of 
her prayer-book,” he said to himself, presently. “ I hope she’s 
not going to send it to me, I won’t take it. She ought to be 
ashamed of herselfl” 

Miss Davenant was indeed busily engaged in penciling some- 
thing on a blank sheet of paper; and, having finished, she fold- 
ed it deftly into a cocked-hat, wrote a few words on the outside, 
and placed it between the leaves of her book. 

Then, as the congregation rose for the Psalms, she gave a 
meaning glance at the blushing and scandalized Mr. Bultitude, 
and, by dexterous management of her prayer-book, shot the 
little cocked-hat, as if unconsciously, into the next pew. 

By a very unfortunate miscalculation, however, the note 
missed its proper, object, and, clearing the partition, fluttered 
deliberately down on the floor by Dulcie’s feet. 

Paul saw this with alarm; he knew that at all hazards he must 
get that miserable note into his own possession and destroy it. 


132 VICE VERSA, 

It might have his name somewhere about it; it might seriously 
compromise him. 

So he took advantage of the noise the congregation made in 
repeating a verse aloud (it was not a high church) to whisper to 
Dulcie: “Little Miss Grimstoue, excuse me, but there’s a — a 
note in the pew down by your feet. I believe it is intended for 
me.” 

Dulcie had seen the whole affair, and had been not a little 
puzzled by it, a clandestine correspondence being a new thing 
in her short experience; but she understood that in this golden- 
haired girl, her elder by several years, she saw her rival, for 
whom Dick had so basely abandoned her yesterday, and she was 
old enough to feel the slight and the sweetness of revenge. 

So she held her bead rather higher than usual, with her firm 
little chin projecting willfully, and waited for the next verse but 
one before retorting: “ Little Master Bultitude, I know it is.” 

“Could you — can you manage to reach it?” whispered Paul, 
entreatingly. 

“ Yes,” said Dulcie, “ I could.” 

“Then will you — when they sit down?” 

“No,” said Dulcie, firmly, “I shan’t.” 

The other girl, she noticed with satisfaction, had become 
aware of the situation and was evidently uneasy. She looked 
as imploringly as she dared at remorseless little Dulcie, as if ap- 
pealing to her not to get her into trouble; but Dulcie bent her 
eyes obstinately on her book and would not see her. 

If the letter had been addressed to any other boy in the school, 
she would have done her best to shield the culprits; but this 
she could not bring herself to do here. She found a malicious 
pleasure in remaining absolutely neutral, which, of course, was 
very wrong aud ill-natured of her. 

Mr. Bultitude began now to be seriously alarmed. The fatal 
paper must be seen by some one in the doctor’s pew as soon as 
the congregation sat down again; and, if it reached the doctor’s 
hands, it was impossible to say what misconstruction he might 
put upon it, or what terrible consequences might not follow. 

He was innocent, perfectly innocent; but, though the con- 
sciousness of innocence is frequently a great consolation, he felt 
that, unless he could imbue the doctor with it as well, it would 
not save him from a flogging. 

So he made one more desperate attempt to soften Dulcie’s 
resolution: “Don’t be a naughty little girl,” he said, very in- 
judiciously for his purpose; “I tell you I must have it. 
You’ll get me into a terrible mess if you’re not careful!” 

But, although Dulcie had been extremely well brought up, I 
regret to say that the only answer she chose to make to this ap- 
peal was that slight contortion of the features which with a pret- 


VICE VERSA. 


133 


ty girl is eiiphemizecl as a ^^moue''' and with a plain one is called 
“ making a face.” When he saw it he knew that all hope of 
changing her purpose must be abandoned. 

Then they all sat down, and, as Paul had foreseen, there the 
white cocked-hat lay on the dark pew-carpet, hideously distinct, 
Avith billet doux in every fold of it! 

It could only be a question of time now. The curate was 
reading the first lesson for the day, but Mr. Bultitude heard not 
a verse of it. He was waiting with bated breath for the blow to 
fall. 

It fell at last. Dulcie, either with the malevolent idea of hast- 
ening the crisis, or (which I jjrefer to believe for my own part) 
finding that her ex lover’s visible torments were too much for 
her desire of vengeance, was softly moving a heavy hassock to- 
ward the guilty note. The movement caught her mother’s eye, 
and'in an instant the compromising jjaper was in her watchful 
hands. 

She read it with incredulous horror, and handed it at once to 
the doctor. 

The golden-haired one saw it all without betraying herself by 
any outward confusion. She had probably had some experience 
in such matters, and felt tolerably certain of being able, at the 
worst, to manage the old gentleman in the gold spectacles. But 
she took an early opportunity of secretly conveying her con- 
tempt for the traitress Dulcie, who continued to meet her angry 
glances with the blandest unconsciousness. 

Dr. Grimstone examined the cocked-hat through his double 
eyeglasses, with a heavy thunder-cloud gathering on his brows. 
When he had mastered it thoroughly, he bent forward and 
glared indignantly past his wife and daughter for at least half a 
minute into the pew where Mr. Bultitude was cowering, until 
he felt that he was coming all to pieces under the piercing gaze. 

The service passed all too quickly after that. Paul sat down 
and stood up almost unconsciously with the rest; but for the 
first time in his life he could have wished the sermon many 
times longer. 

The horror of his position quite petrified him. After all his 
])rndent resolutions to keep out of mischief and to win the re- 
gard and confidence of his jailer by his good conduct, like the 
innocent convict in a melodrama, this came as nothing less than 
a catastrophe. He walked home in a truly dismal state of limp 
terror. 

Fortunately for him, none of the others seemed to have no- 
ticed his misfortune, and Jolland male no further advances. 
But even the weather tended to increase his depression, for it 
was a bleak, cheerless day, with a bitter and searching wind 
sweeping the gritty roads where yesterday’s rain was turned to 


13i 


VICE VERSA. 


black ice in the ruts, and the sun shone with a dull coppery 
glitter that had no wamith or geniality about it. 

The nearer they came to Crichton House the more abjectly 
miserable became Mr. Bultitude’s state of mind. It was as 
much as he could do to crawl up the steps to the front door, and 
his knees positively clapped together when the doctor, who had 
driven home, met them in the hall and said, in a still, grave 
voice, “ Bultitude, when you have taken off your coat, I want 
you in the study.” 

He was as long about taking oft' his coat as he dared, but at 
last he went trembling into the study, which he found empty. 
He remembered the room well, with its ebony-framed etchings 
on the walls, bookcases and blue china over the draped mantel- 
piece, even to a large case of elaborately carved Indian chess- 
men in bullock-carts and palanquins, on horses and elephants, 
which stood in the window-recess. It was the very room to 
which he had been shown when he first called about sending 
his son to tlie school. He had little thought then that the time 
would come when he would attend tliere for the purpose of being 
flogged; few things would have seemed less probable. Yet here 
he was. 

But his train of thought was abruptly broken by the entrance 
of the doctor. He marched solemnly in, holding out the offend- 
ing missive. “Look here, sir!” he said, shaking it angrily be- 
fore Paul’s eyes. “ Look here! what do you mean by receiving 
a flippant communication like this in a sacred edifice? What do 
you mean by it?” 

“ I — I didn’t receive it,” said Paul, at his wit’s end. 

“Don’t prevaricate to me, sir; you know well enough it was 
in ten vied for you. Have the goodness to read it now, and tell 
me what you have to say for yourself!” 

Paul read it. It was a silly little school-girl note, half slang, 
and half sentiment, signed only with the initials C. D. “ Well, 
sir?” said the doctor. 

“It’s very forward and improper — very,” said Paul; “but it’s 
not my fault — I can’t help it. I gave the girl no encourage- 
ment. I never saw her before in all my life!” 

“To my own knowledge, Bultitude, she has sat in that pew 
regularly for a year.” 

“Very probably,” said Paul, “ but I don’t notice these mat- 
ters. I’m past that sort of thing, my dear sir.” 

“What is her name? Come, sir, you know that.” 

“Connie Davenant,” said Paul, taken unawares by the sud- 
denness of the question. “ At least, I — I heard so to-day.” 
He felt the imprudence of such an admission as soon as he had 
made it 


VICE VERSA. 


135 


“Very odd that you know lier name if you never noticed her 
before,” said the doctor. * 

“ Joliand told me,” said Paul. 

“Ah, but it’s odder still that she knows yours, for I perceive 
it is directed to you by name. ” 

“It’s easily explained, my dear sir,” said Paul; “easily ex- 
plained. I’ve no doubt she heard it somewhere. At least, I 
never told her; it is not likely. I do assure you Pm as much 
distressed and shocked by this affair as you can be yourself. 
I am indeed. I don’t know what girls are coming to nowa- 
days” 

“ Do you expect me to believe that you are perfectly inno- 
cent?” said the doctor. 

“ Yes, I do,” said Mr. Bultitude. “ I can’t prevent fast young 
ladies from sending me notes. Why, she might have sent you 
one!” 

“ We won’t go into hypothetical cases,” said the doctor, not 
relishing the war being carried into his own country; “she 
happened to prefer you. But, although your virtuous indigna- 
tion seems to me a trifle overdone, sir, I don’t see my way clear 
to punishing you on the facts, especially as you tell me you 
never encouraged these — these overtures, and my Dulcie, I am 
bound to say, confirms your statement that it was all the other 
young lady’s doing. But, if I had had any proof that you had 
begun or responded to her — hem — advances, nothing could 
have saved you from a severe flogging at the very least; so bo 
careful for the future.” 

“Ah!” said Paul, rather feebly, quite overwhelmed by the 
narrowness of his escape. Then, with a desperate effort, ho 
found courage to add: “May I — ah — take advantage of this — 
this restored cordiality, to — to — in fact, to make a brief personal 
explanation? It — it’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for a 
long time, ever since I first came, only you never will hear me 
out. It’s highly important. You’ve no notion how serious 
it is!” 

“There’s something about you this term, Richard Bultitude,” 
said the doctor, slowly, “that I confess I don’t understand. 
This obstinacy is unusual in a boy of your age, and if you really 
have a mystery it may be as well to have it out and have done 
with it. But I can’t be annoyed with it now. Come to me after 
supper to-night, and I shall be willing to hear anything you have 
to say.” 

Paul was too overcome at this unexpected favor to speak his 
thanks. He got away as soon as he could. His path was 
smoothed at last! 

That afternoon the boys, or all of them who had disposed of 
the work set them for the day, were sitting in the schoolroom, 


136 


VICE VERSA. 


after a somewhat chilly dinner of cold beef, cold tarts, and cold 
water, passing the time Vitli that description of literature known 
as “ Sunday reading.” 

And here, at the risk of being guilty of a digression, I must 
pause to record my admiration for this exceedingly happy form 
of compromise, which is, I think, peculiar to the British and, to 
a certain extent, the American nations. 

It has many developments. From the mild transatlantic com- 
pound of cookery and camp-meetings, to the semi-novel, re- 
deemed and chastened by an arrangement which sandwiches 
a sermon or a biblical lecture between each chapter of the story 
— a great convenience for the race of skippers. 

But the crown and triumph of successful trimming must 
surely be looked for in the illustrated Sabbath magazines, in 
many of which there is so dexterous a combination of this world 
and the next that even a public analyst might find it difficult to 
resolve them. 

Open any one of the monthly numbers, and the chances are 
you will find at one part a neat little doctrinal essay by a literary 
bishop; at another a paper upon “ cockroaches and their habits” 
by an eminent savant; somewhere else, a description of foreign 
travel, done in a brilliant and wholly secular vein; and, farther 
on again, an article on aesthetic furniture — the balance of the 
number being devoted to installments of two thrilling novels 
by popular authors, whose theology is seldom their strongest 
point. 

Oddly enough, too, when these very novels come out later in 
three-volume form, with the “mark of the beast” in the shape 
of a circulating library ticket upon them, they will be fortunate 
if they are not interdicted altogether by some of the serious fam- 
ilies who take in the magazines as being “so suitable for Sun- 
days.” 

It was the editor of one of these magazines, indeed, who is 
said, though I do not vouch for the truth of the story, to have 
implored the author, who was running a novel through his col- 
umns, to shift the date on which he had made his lovers meet 
from Saturday afternoon to “ Sunday after church time,” in def- 
erence to the susceptibilities of the subscribers. 

Mr. Bultitude, at all events, had no reason to complain of the 
svstem. For in one of the bound volumes supplied to him he 
found a most interesting and delightfully unsectarian novel, 
which appealed to his tastes as a business man, for it was all 
about commerce and making fortunes by blockade-running; and, 
though he was no novel reader as a rule, his mind was so re- 
lieved and set at rest by the prospect of seeing the end of liis 
troubles at last that he was able to occupy his mind with the 
fortunes of the hero. 


VICE VERSA. 


137 


He naturally detected technical errors here and there. But 
that pleased him, and he was becoming so deeply absorbed in 
the tale that he felt seriously annoyed when Chawner came 
softly up to the desk at which he was sitting, and sat down close 
to him, crossing his arms before him, and leaning forward upon 
them with his sallow face toward Paul. 

“Dickie,” he began, in a cautious, oil}^ tone, “did I hear the 
doctor say before dinner that he would hear anything you have 
to tell him after supper? Did I?” 

“I really can’t say, sir,” said Paul; “if your were near the 
key-hole at the time, very likely you did.” 

“ The door was open,” said Chawner, “ and I was in the cloak- 
room, so I heard, and I want to know. What is it you’re going 
to tell the doctor?” 

“Mind your own business, sir,” said Paul, sharply. 

“It is my own business,” said Chawner; “but I don’t want 
to be told what you’re going to tell him. I know.” 

“ Good Heavens!” said Mr. Bultitude, annoyed to find his 
secret in possession of this boy of all others. 

“Yes,” repeated Chawner, “I know, and I tell you what — I 
won’t have it!” 

“ Won’t have it! and why? ’ 

“Never mind why. Perhaps I don’t choose that the doctor 
shall be told just yet; perhaps I mean to go up and tell him 
myself some other day. I want to have a little more fun out of 
it before I’ve done.” 

“But — but,” said Paul, “you young ghoul, do you mean to 
say that all your care for is to see other people’s sufferings?” 

Chawner grinned maliciousl3\ “ Yes, ” he said, suavely, “it 
amuses me.” 

“And so,” said Paul, “you want to hold me back a little 
longer — because it’s so funny ; and then, when you’re quite tired 
of your sport, you’ll go up and tell the doctor my — my unhappy 
story yourself, eh? No, my friend; I’d rather not tell him my- 
self — but I’ll be shot if I let you have a finger in it. I know 
my own interests better than that!” 

“ Don’t get in a passion, Dickie,” said Chawner; “ it’s Sunday. 
Y’’ou’ll have to let me go up instead of you — when I’ve frightened 
them a little more.” 

“Who do you mean by them, sir?” said Paul, growing puz- 
zled. 

“As if you didn’t know! Oh, you’re too clever for me, 
Dickie, I can see,” sniggered Chawner. 

“I tell you I don’t know!” said Mr. Bultitude. “Look here, 
Chawner — your confounded name is Chawner, isn’t it? — there’s 
a mistake somewhere, I’m sure of it. Listen to me. I’m not 
going to tell the doctor what you think I am!” 


138 


VICE VERSA. 


“What do I think you are going to tell him?’* 

“I haven’t the slightest idea; but, whatever it is, you’re 
wrong.” 

“Ah, you’re too clever, Dickie; you won’t betray yourself; 
but other people want to pay Coker and Tipping out as w^ell as 
you, and I say you must wait.” 

“ I sha’n’t say anything to affect any one but myself,” said 
Paul; “if you know all about it, you must know that — it won’t 
interfere with your amusement, that I can see.” 

“Yes, it will,” said Chawner, irritably, “it will — you mayn’t 
mean to tell of any one but yourself, but, directly Grimstone 
asks you questions, it all comes out. I know all about it. And, 
anyway, I forbid you to go up till I give you leave.” 

“And who the deuce are you?” said Mr. Bultitude, nettled at 
this assumption of authority. “ How are you going to prevent 
me, may I ask?” 

“S-sh! here’s the doctor,” whispered Chawner, hurriedly. 
“I’ll tell you after tea. What am I doing out of my place, sir? 
Oh, I was only asking Bultitude what was the collect for to- 
day, sir. Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany? thank you, Bul- 
titude.” 

And he glided back to his seat, leaving Paul in astateof vague 
uneasiness. Why did this fellow, with the infernal sly face and 
glib tongue, want to prevent him from righting himself with the 
world, and how could he possibly prevent him? It was absurd; 
he would take no notice of the young scoundrel — he would defy 
him. 

But he could not banish the uneasy feeling; the cup had 
slipped so many times before atthecritical moment that he could 
not be sure whose hand would be the next to jog his elbow. And 
so he went down to tea with renewed misgivings. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

AGAINST TIME. 

There is a kind of Followers likewise, which are dangerous, being 
indeed Espials; which inquire the Secrets of the House and bear© 
Tales of them.” — Bacon. 

“ Then give me leave that I may turn the key, 

That no man enter till my tale be done.” 

Very possibly Chawner’s interference in Mr. Bultitude’s pri- 
vate affairs has surprised others besides the victim of it; but the 


VICE VERSA. 


139 


fact is that there was a most unfortunate misunderstanding be- 
tween them from the very first, which prevented the one from 
seeing, the other from explaining, the real state of the 
case. 

Chawner, of course, no more guessed Paul’s true name and 
nature than any one else who had come in contact with him in 
his impenetrable disguise, and his motive for attempting to pre- 
vent an interview with the doctor can only, I fear, be explained 
by another slight digression. 

The doctor, from a deep sense of his responsibility for the 
morals of those under his care, was perhaps a trifle over-anxious 
to clear his moral garden of every noxious weed, and too con- 
stant in his vigilant efforts to detect the growing shoot of evil 
from the moment it showed above the surface. 

As he could not be everywhere, however, it is evident that 
many offences, trivial and otherwise, must have remained un- 
suspected and unpunished, but for a theory which he had 
originated and took great pains to propagate among his 
pupils. 

The theory was that every right-minded boy ought to feel 
himself in such a fiduciary position toward his master that it 
became a positive duty to acquaint him with any delinquencies 
he might happen to observe among his fellows; and if, at the 
same time, he was oppressed by a secret burden on his own con- 
science, it was understood that he might hope • that the joint 
revelation would go far to mitigate his own punishment. 

It is doubtful wliether this system, though T believe it is 
found successful in Jesuit colleges, can be usefully applied to 
English hoys; whether it may not produce a habit of mutual 
distrust and suspicion, and a tone the reverse of healthy. 

For myself, I am inclined to think that a schoolmaster will 
find it better in the long run, for both the character and morals 
of his school, if he is not too anxious to play the detective, and 
refrains from encouraging the more weak-minded or cowardly 
boys to save themselves by turning “ schoolmaster’s evidence.” 

Dr. Grimstone thought otherwise; but it must be allowed 
that the system, as in vogue at Crichton House, did not work 
well. 

There were boys, of course, who took a sturdier view of their 
own rights and duties, and despised the tale-bearers as they de- 
served; there were others, also, too timid and too dependent on 
the good opinion of others to risk the loss of it by becoming in- 
formers; but there were always one or two whose consciences 
were unequal to the burden of their neighbor’s sin, and could 
only be relieved by frank and full confession. 

XJnhappily they had, as a general rule, contributed largely to 


140 


VICE VERSA. 


the sum of guilt themselves, and did not resort to disclosure un- 
til detection seemed reasonably imminent. 

Chawner was the leader of this conscientious band; he reveled 
in the system. It gave him tlie means at once of gratifying the 
almost universal love of power and of indulging a catlike pas- 
sion for playing with the feelings of others, which, it is to be 
hoped, is more uncommon. 

He knew he was not popular, but he could procure most of 
the incidents of popularity; he could have his little court of 
cringing toadies; he could levy his tribute of conciliatory pres- 
ents, and vent many private spites and hatreds into the bargain 
— and he generally did. 

Having himself a tendency to acts of sly disobedience, he 
found it a congenial pastime to set the fashion from time to time 
in some one of the peccadilloes to which boyhood is prone, and 
to which the doctor’s somewhat restrictive code added a large 
number, and, as soon as he saw a sufficient number of his com- 
panions satisfactorily imiDlicated, his opportunity came. 

He would take the chief culprits aside, and profess, in strict 
confidence, certain qualms of conscience which he feared could 
only be appeased by unburdening his guilt-laden soul. 

To this none would have had any right to object — had it not 
necessarily, or at least from Chawner’s point of view, involved 
a full, true, and particular account of the misdoings of each and 
every one; and, consequently, for some time after these profes- 
sions of misgivings, Chawner would be surrounded by a little 
crowd of anxiously obsequious friends, all trying hard to over- 
come his scruples or persuade him, at least, to omit their names 
from his revelations. 

Sometimes he would affect to be convinced by their argu- 
ments and send them away reassured; at others his scruples 
would return in an aggravated form; and so he would keep them 
on tenter-hooks of suspense for days and weeks, until he was 
tired of the amusement — for this practicing on the fears of 
weaker natures is a horribly keen delight to some — or until some 
desperate little dog, unable to bear his torture any longer, would 
threaten to give himself up and make an end of it. 

Then Chawner, to do him justice, always relieved him from 
so disagreeable a necessity, and would go softly into the doctor’s 
study, and, in a subdued and repentant tone, pour out his 
general confession for the public good. 

Probably the doctor did not altogether respect the instru- 
ments he saw fit to use in this way; some would have declined 
to hear the informer out, flogged him well, and forgotten it; but 
Dr. Grimstone — though he was hardly likely to be impressed by 
these exhibitions of noble candor, and did not fail to see that 
the prospect of obtaining better terms for the penitent himself 


VICE VEESA. 


141 


had something to do with them — yet encouraged the system as 
a matter of policy, went thoroughly into the whole affair, and 
made it the cause of an explosion which he considered would 
clear the moral atmos^jliere for some time to come. 

I hope that, after this explanation, Chawner’s opposition to 
Mr. Bultitude’s plans will be better understood. 

After tea, he made Paul a little sign to follow him, and the 
two went out together into the little glass-house beyond the 
schoolroom; it was dark, but there was light enough from the 
room inside for them to see each other’s face. 

“Now, sir,” began Paul, with dignity, when he had closed 
the glass door behind him, “ perhaps you’ll be good enough to 
tell me how you mean to prevent me from seeing Dr. Grimstone, 
and telling him — telling him what I have to tell him?” 

“I’ll tell you, Dickie,” said Chawnei’, with an evil smirk. 
“ You shall know soon enough.” 

“Don’t stand grinning at me like that, sir,” said the angry 
Mr. Bultitude; “ say it out at once; it will make no difference 
to me, I give you warning!” 

“ Oh, yes it will, though. I think it will. Wait. I heard all 
you said to Grimstone in the study to-day about that girl — Con- 
nie Davenant, you know.” 

“I don’t care; I am innocent. I have nothing to reproach 
myself with.” 

“What a liar you are!” said Chawner, more in admiration 
than rebuke! “ You told him you never gave her any encour- 
agement, didn’t you? And he said, if he ever found you had, 
nothing could save you from a licking, didn’t he?” 

“ He did,” said Paul; “he was quite right from his point of 
view — what then?” 

“Why this,” said Chawner: “Do you remember giving Jol- 
land, the last Sunday of last term, a note for that very girl?” 

“I never did!” said poor Mr. Bultitude, “I never saw the 
wretched girl before.” 

“All!” said Chawner, “but I’ve got the note in my pocket! 
Jolland was seedy, and asked me to take it for you, and I read 
it, and it was so nicely written that I thought I should like to 
keep it myself, and so I did — and here it is!” 

And he drew out with great caution a piece of crumpled paper 
and showed it to the horrified old gentleman. “ Don’t snatch 
. . . it’s rude ; there it is, you see: “ My dear Connie ’ . . . 

‘yours ever, Dick Bultitude.’ No, you don’t come any nearer 
. . . there, now it’s safe . . . Now what do vou mean to 

do?” 

“I — I don’t know,” said Paul, feeling absolutely checkmated. 
“ Give me time.” 

“ I tell you what I mean to do ; I shall keep my eye on you. 


142 


VICE VERSA. 


and, directly T see yon making ready to go to Grimstone, I shall 
get up first and take him this . . . then you’ll be done for. 

You’d better give in, really, Dickie!’' 

The note was too evidently genuine. Dick must have written 
it (as a matter of fact he had ; in a moment of pique, no doubt, 
at some caprice of his real enslaver Dulcie’s — but his fickleness 
brought fatal results on his poor father’s undeserving head) ; if 
this diabolical Chawner carried out his threats, he would indeed 
be “ done for he did not yet fully understand the other’s mo- 
tive, but he thought that he feared lest Paul, in declaring his 
own sorrows, might also accuse Tipping and Coker of acts of 
cruelty and oppression, which Chawner proposed to denounce 
himself at some more convenient opportunity he hesitated pain- 
fully. 

“ Well,’^ said Chawner, “makeup your mind ; are you going 
to tell him or not?” 

“T must!” said Paul, hoarsely. “ I promise you I shall not 
bring any other names in ... I don’t want to ... I 
only want to save myself— and I can’t stand it any longer. Why 
should you stand between me and my rights in this currish way? 
I didn’t know there were boys like you in this world, sir ; you’re 
a young monster!” 

“I don’t mean you to tell the doctor an v thing at all,” said 
Chawner. “ I shall do what I said.” 

“ Then do your worst!” cried Paul, stung to defiance. 

“Very well, then,” returned Chawner, meekly, “I will — and 
we’ll see who wins!” 

^ And they went back to the schoolroom again, where Mr. Bul- 
titude, boiling with rage and seriously alarmed as well, tried to 
sit down and appear as if nothing had happened. 

Chawner sat down too, in a place from which he could see all 
Paul’s movements, and they both watched one another anxiously 
from the corners of their eyes till the doctor came in. 

“It’s a foggy evening,” he said as he entered ; “ the younger 
boys had better stay in. Chawner, you and the rest of the first 
form can go to church ; get ready at once. ” 

Paul’s heart leaped with triumph ; with his enemy out of the 
way, he could carry out his purpose unhindered. The same 
thing apparently occurred to Chawner, for he said, mildly, 
“ Please, sir, may Richard Bultitude come too?” 

“ Can’t Bultitude ask leave for himself?” said the doctor. 

“I, sir!” said the horrified Paul, “it’s a mistake— I don’t 
want to go. I — I don’t feel very well this evening!” 

“ Then you see, Chawner, you misunderstood him. By the 
way, Bultitude, there was something you were to tell me, I 
think!” 

Chawner’s small, glittering eyes were fixed on Paul menacing- 


VICE VERSA. 


143 


ly, as he managed to stammer that he did want to say something 
in private. 

“Very well, I am going out to see a friend for an hour or so ; 
when I come back I will hear,” and he left the room abruptly. 

Chawner would very probably have petitioned to stay in that 
evening as well, had he had time and presence of mind to do so; 
as it was, he was obliged to go away and get ready for church ; 
but when his preparations were made he came back to Paul, 
and leaning over him said, with an unpleasant scowl, “ If I get 
back in time, Bultitude, we’ll see whether you balk me quite so 
easily. If I come back and find you’ve done it — I shall take in 
that letter!” 

“You may do what you please, then,” said Paul, in a high 
state of irritation ; “I shall be well out of your reach by that 
time. Now have the goodness to take yourself off.” 

As he went, Mr. Bultitude thought : “I never in all my life 
saw such a fellow as that, never! It would give me real pleas- 
ure to hire some one to kick him.” 

The evening passed quietly; the boys left at home sat in their 
places, reading or pretending to read. Mr. Blinkhorn, left in 
charge of them, was at his table in the corner, noting up his 
diary. Paul was free for a time to think over his position. 

At first he was calm and triumphant; his dearest hopes, his 
long-wished for opportunity of a fair and unprejudiced hearing, 
were at last to be fulfilled; Chawner was well out of the way for 
the best part of two hours — the doctor was very unlikely to be 
detained nearly so long over one call. His one anxiety was lest 
he might not be able, after all, to explain himself in a thoroughly 
effective manner; he planned out a little scheme for doing this. 

He must begin gradually, of course, so as not to alarm the 
shoolmaster or raise doubts of his sincerity, or, worse still, his 
sanity. Perhaps a slight glance at instances of extraordinary 
interventions of the supernatural from the earliest times, tend- 
ing to show the extreme probability of their survival on rare oc- 
casions even to the present day, might be a prudent and cautious 
introduction to the subject — only he could not think of any, 
and, after all, it might weary the doctor. 

He would start somewhat in this manner: “You cannot, my 
dear sir, have failed to observe, since our meeting this year, a 
certain difference in my manner and bearing ” — one’s projected 
speeches are somehow generally couched in finer language than, 
when it comes to the point, the tongue can be prevailed upon 
to utter. Mr. Bultitude learned this opening sentence by heart; 
he thought it taking and neat — the sort of thing to fix his hear- 
er’s attention from the first. 

After that, he found it difficult to get any further; he knew 
himself that all he was about to describe was plain, unvarnished 


114 


VICE VERSA. 


fact — but how would it strike on a stranger’s ear? he found him- 
self seeking ways in which to tone down the glaring improba- 
bility of the thing as much as possible, but in vain. “ I don’t 
know how I shall ever get it all out,” he told himself at last; 
“ if I think about it much longer I shall begin to disbelieve in 
it myself.” 

Here Biddlecomb came up in a confidential manner and sat 
down by Paul. “Dick,” he began, in rather a trembling voice, 
“did I hear the doctor say something about your having some- 
thing to tell him?” 

“Oh, Lord, here’s another of them now!” thought Paul. 
“You are right, young sir,” he said; “ have you any objection? 
mention it, you know, if you have, pray mention it. It’s a mat- 
ter of life and death to me, but if you at all disapprove, of 
course that ought to be final.” 

“No, but,” protested Biddlecomb, “1 — I daresay I’ve not 
treated you very well lately, I ’ 

“ You were kind enough to suggest several very uncommonly 
unpleasant ways of annoying me, sir,” said Paul, resentfully, 
“if you mean that. Y’^ou’ve kicked me more than once, and your 
handkerchief, unless I am very much mistaken, had the biggest 
and the hardest knot in it yesterday. If that gives you the 
right to interfere and dictate to me now, like your amiable 
friend, Mr. Chawner, I suppose you have it.” 

“Now you’re angry,” said Biddlecomb, humbly; “I don’t 
wonder at it. I’ve behaved like a cad, I know, but, and this is 
what I wanted to say, I was sorry for you all the time.” 

“That’s very comforting,” said Paul, dryly; “thank you; 
I’m vastly obliged to you.” 

“I was, though,” said Biddlebomb; “I — I was led away by 
the other fellows — I always liked you, you know, Bultitude.” 

“You’ve a very odd way of showing your affection,” re- 
marked Mr. Bultitude; “but goon; let me hear all you have 
to say.” 

“ It isn’t much,” said Biddlecomb, quite broken down; “ onlv 
don’t sneak of me this time, Dick; let me off, there’s a good fel- 
low. I’ll stick up for you after this, I will really. You used 
not to be a fellow for sneaking once. I’ts caddish to sneak.” 

“Don’t be alarmed, my good friend,” said Paul; “I Avon’t 
poach on that excellent young man Chawner’s preserves. What 
I am going to tell the doctor has nothing to do with you.” 

“ On your honor?” said Biddlecomb, eagerly. 

“Yes,” said Paul, testily, “on my honor. Now, perhaps, 
you’ll let me alone. No, I won’t shake hands, sir. I’ve had to 
accept your kicks, but I don’t want your friendship.” 

Biddlecomb went off, looking slightly ashamed of himself, 
but visibly relieved from a haunting fear. “ Thank goodness!” 


VICE VERSA. 


145 


tlionglit Paul, “he wasn’t as obstinate as the other fellow. 
AVhat a set they are! I knew it; there’s another boy coming up 
now!” 

And, indeed, one boy after another came up in the same way 
as Eiddlecomb had done, some cringing more than others, but 
all vowing that they had never intended to do any harm, and en- 
treating him to change his mind about complaining of his ill- 
treatment. They brought little offerings to propitiate him and 
prove the depth of their unaltered regard — pencil-cases, pocket- 
knives, and so forth — until they drove Paul nearly to despera- 
tion. However, he succeeded in dis2Jelling their fears after 
some hot arguments, and had just sent away the last supidiant, 
when he saw Jolland, too, rise and come toward him. 

Jolland leaned across Paul’s desk with folded arms and looked 
him full in the face with his shallow, light-green eyes. “I 
don’t know what you’ve said to all those chaps,” he began; 
“they’ve come back looking precious glum, but they won’t tell 
me what you’ve said.” (Mr. Bultitude had in satisfying their 
alarm taken care to let them know his private opinion of them, 
which was not flattering.) “ But I’ve got something to say to 
you, and it’s this: I never thought you would quite come down 
to this sort of thing!” 

“What sort of thing?” said Paul, who was beginning to have 
enough of it. 

“ Why, going up and letting on against all of us — it’s mean, 
you know. If you have got bashed about pretty well since you 
came back, it’s been all your own fault, and you know it. Last 
term you got on well enough— this time you began to be queer 
and nasty the very first day you came. I thought it was one of 
your larks at first, but I don’t know what it is now, and I don’t 
care. I stood up for you as long as I could, till you acted like 
a funk yesterday Then I took my share in lamming you, and 
I’d do it again. But, if you are cad enough to pay us all out 
in this way. I’ll have no more to do with you — mind that. 
That’s all I came to say.” 

This was an unpalatable way of putting things, but Paul could 
not help seeing that there was some truth in it. Jolland had been 
kind to him, too, in a careless sort of way, and at some cost to 
himself; so it was with more mildness than tem2)er that he an- 
swered him. 

“ You’re on the wrong tack, my boy, the wrong tack. I’ve 
no wish to tell tales of any one, as I’ve been trying to explain to 
your frien'ds. There’s something the matter with me which 
you wouldn’t understand if I told you.” 

“Oh, I didn’t know,” vsaid Jolland, mollified; “if it’s only 
physic you want.” 

“ Whatever it is,” said Paul, “not caring to undeceive him, 


146 


VICE VERSA. 


‘‘it won’t affect you or any one here, but myself. You’re not a 
bad young fellow, I believe. I don’t want to get you into trou- 
ble, sir; you don’t want much assistance, I’m afraid, in that 
department. So be off, like a good fellow, and leave me in 
peace.” 

All these interviews had taken time. He was alarmed on look- 
ing at the clock to see that it was nearly eight; the doctor was 
a long time over that call. For the first time he began to feel 
uneasy; he made hurried mental calculations as to the possibil- 
ity of the doctor or Chawner being the first to return. 

The walk to church took about twenty minutes; say the ser- 
vice took an hour, allowing for the return, he might expect 
Chawner by about half-past eight; it was striking the hour now 
— half an hour only in which he could hope for any favorable 
result from the interview! 

For he saw this plainly, that if Chawner were once permitted 
to get the doctor’s ear first and show him that infamous love- 
note, no explanation of his (even if he had nerve to make it 
then, which he doubted) could possibly seem anything more 
than a desperate and far-fetched excuse; if he could anticipate 
Chawner, on the other hand, and once convince the doctor of 
the truth of his story, the informer’s malice would fall flat. 

And still the long hand went rapidly on, as Mr. Bultitude sat 
staring stupidly at it with a faint sick feeling — it had passed the 
quarter now — why did the doctor delay in this unwarrantable 
manner? What a farce social civilities were — if he had allowed 
himself to be prevailed on to stay to supper! Twenty minutes 
past; Chawner and the others might return at any rnoment — a 
ring at the bell; they were there! all was over "now — no, he 
was saved, there was Dr. Grimstone’s voice in the hall — what 
an unconscionable time he was taking off his great coat and 
gloves! 

But all comes to the man who waits. In another moment the 
doctor looked in, singled out Mr. Bultitude with a sharp glance, 
and a “ Now, Bultitude, I will hear you!” and led the way to his 
study. 

Paul staggered rather than walked after him; as usual at the 
critical moment, his carefully prepared opening had deserted 
him — his head felt heavy and crowded — he wanted to run away, 
but forced himself to overcome such a suicidal proceeding and 
follow to the study. 

There was a lighted reading-lamp with a green glass shade 
upon the table. The doctor sat down by it in an arm-chair by 
the fire, crossed his legs, and joined the tops of his fingers to- 
gether. “Now, Bultitude,” he said again. 

“Might I — might I sit down?” said poor Mr. Bultitude, in a 
thick voice; it was all that occured to him to say. 


VICE VERSA. 


147 


“ Sit, by all means,” said the doctor, blandly. 

So Paul drew a chair opposite the doctor and sat down. He 
tried desperately to clear his head and throat and begin; but 
tlie only distinct thought in his mind then was that the 
green lamp-shade lent a particularly ghastly hue to the doctor’s 
i'ace. 

“Take your time, Bultitude,” said the latter, after a long 
minute, in which a little skeleton clock on the mantelpiece ticked 
loudly; “ there’s no hurry, my boy.” 

But this only reminded Paul that there was every need for 
hurry. Chawner might come in, and follow him here, unless 
he made haste. 

Still, he could only say: “You see me in a very agitated state. 
Dr. Grimstone — a very agitated state, sir. 

The doctor gave a short, dry cough. “Well, Bultitude,” he 
said. 

“ The fact is, sir, I’m in a most unfortunate position, and — and 
the worst of it is, I don’t know how to begin.” Here he made 
another dead stop, while the doctor raised his heavy eyebrows, 
and looked at the clock. 

“Do you see any prospect of finding yourself able to begin 
soon?” he inquired, at last, with rather suspicious suavity. 
“ Perhaps if you came to me later on ” 

“Not for the world!” said Paul, in a highly nervous condition. 
“I shall begin very soon, doctor, I shall begin directly. Mine 
is such a very singular case; it’s difficult, as you see, to — to 
open it!” 

“ Have you anything on your mind?” asked the doctor, sud- 
denly. 

Paul could hear steps and voices in the adjoining cloak-room 
— the churchgoers had returned. “Yes — no!” he answered, 
losing his head completely now. 

“ That’s a somewhat extraordinary, not to say an ambi- 
uous reply,” said the doctor; “what am I to understand 
by ” 

There was a rap at the door. Paul started to his feet in a 
panic. “Don’t let him in!” he shrieked, finding his voice at 
last. “Hear me first — you shall hear me first! Say that other 
rascal is not to come in. He wants to ruin me!” 

“ I was going to say I was engaged,” said the doctor ; “but 
there’s something under this I must understand. Come in, 
whoever you are.” 

And the door opened softly, and Chawner stepped meekly in ; 
he was rather pale, and breathed hard, but was otherwise quite 
composed. 

“ Now, then, Chawner,” said the doctor, impatiently, “what 
is it? Have you something on your mind, too?” 


148 


VICE VERSA. 


“Please, sir,” said Cliawuei*, “has Bultitude told you any- 
thing yet?” 

“No; why? Hold your tongue, Bultitude. I shall hear 
Chawner now — not you!” 

“Because, sir,” explained Chawner, “he knew I had made 
up my mind to tell you si‘mething I thought you ought to know 
about him, and so he threatened to come first and toilsome false- 
hood (I’m sure I don’t know what) about me, sir. I think I 
ought to be here too.” 

“It’s a lie!’ shouted Paul. “What a villain that boy is! 
Don’t believe a word he says. Dr. Grimstone; it’s all false — all!” 

“This is very, suspicious, ’ said the doctor; “if your con- 
science were good, Bultitude, you could liave no object in pre- 
venting me from hearing Chawner. Chawner, in spite of some 
obvious defects in his character,” he went on, with a gulp (he 
never could quite overcome a repulsion to the boy), “ is, on the 
whole, a right-minded and, ah, conscientious boy. I hear Chaw- 
uer first.” 

“ Then, sir, if you please,” said Chawner, with an odious side 
smirk of triumph at Paul, who, quite crushed by the horror of 
the situation, had collapsed feebly on his chair again, “I thought 
it was my duty to let you see this. I found it to-day in Bulti- 
tude’s prayer-book, sir.” And lie handed Dick’s unlucky scrawl 
to the doctor, who took it to the lamp and read it hurriedly 
through. 

xA.fter that there was a terrible moment of dead silence; then 
the doctor looked up and said, shortly: “You did well to tell 
mo of this, Chawner; you may go now.” 

When tlmy were alone once more ho turned upon the speech- 
less Paul with furious scorn and indignation. “Contemptible 
liar and hypocrite,” he thundered, pacing restlessly up and 
down the room in his excitement, till Paul felt like Daniel, with- 
out his sense of secuiuty, “you are unmasked — unmasked, sir! 
Yon led me to believe that you were as much shocked and 
])ained at this girl’s venturing to write to you as I could be my- 
self. You called it. quite correctly, ‘forward and improper;’ 
you pretended you had never given her the least oncourngement 
■ — had not heard her name even — till to day. And here is a note, 
written, as T should imagine, some time since, in which you ad- 
dress her as ‘Connie Davenant,’ and have the impudence to 
admire the hat she wore the Sunday before! I shudder, sir, to 
think of such dn])licjty, such i>recocious and shameless do- 
7)ravitv. It astounds me. It deprives me of all power to 
th.iidx!” 

Paul made some faint ahd inarticulate remark about being a 
himily man— always most particular, and so forth; luckily it 
passed unheard. 


VICE VERSA,. 


149 


“Wbatslialll do witli you?” continued the doctor; “how 
shall I punish such monstrous misconduct?” 

“Don't ask we, sir,” said Paul, desperately — “only, for 
Heaven’s sake, get it over as soon as possible.” 

.“If I linger, sir,” retorted the doctor, “it is because I have 
grave doubts as to whether your olTense can be ex])iated by a 
mere flogging — whether that is not altogether too light a retri- 
bution.” 

“ He can’t want to torture me,” thought Paul. 

“Yes,” said the doctor again, “ the doubt has prevailed. On 
a mind so hardened, the cane would leave no lasting impression. 
I cannot allow your innocent companions to run th.e risk of con- 
tamination from your society. I must not permit this ser]K^nt 
to glide uncrushed, this cockatrice to practice his c})istolary 
wiles, within my peacetul fold. My mind is made up — at what- 
ever cost to myself — however it may distress and grieve your 
good father, who is so pathetically anxious for you to do him 
credit, sir. I must do my duty to the parents of the boys in- 
trusted to my care. I shall not flog you, sir, lor I feel it would 
be useless; I shall expel you. ’ 

“ Wdiat!” Paul leaped up incredulous. “Expel me? Do I 
hear you aright. Dr. (drimstone? Bay it again — you will ex- 
jiel me?” 

“1 have said it,” the doctor said, sternly; “no expostulation 
can move me now ” (as if Mr. Bultitude was likely to expostu- 
late!). “Mrs. Grimstone will s('e that your boxes are packed 
the first thing to-morrow morning, and I shall take you mysi If 
to tlio station, and consign you to the l.ome you have covered 
with blushes rn<] shame, by the 9.15 train, and 1 shall write a 
letter to-night cx[)laining the causes for your dismissal.” 

Mr. Bultitude covered iiis face v. itii Ids liand, to hide, not his 
shame and distress, l;ut his indecent ra-iture. It seemed almost 
too good to be true! He saw himself about to be provided with 
every means of reaching home in comfort and safety. He need 
dread no pursuit now. There was no chance, either, of his lx;- 
ing forced to return to the prison-house; the doctor’s hdter 
would convince even Dick of the impossibility of that. Aiid, 
best of all, this magnificent stroke of good luck had been ob- 
tained without tin' ignominy and pain of a flogging, without 
even the unpleasant necessity of telling his strange secret. 

But (having gained some <'xperie!ice during his short stay at 
the school) he had the duplicity to pretend to sob bitterly. 

“But one nieht more, sir,” continued the doctor, “ shall you 
pa^‘^ beneath this roof, and that apart from your fellows. You 
will occupy the sp^are bedroom untd the morning, when you 
quit the school in disgrace — forever.” 

I said in another chapter that this Sunday would find Paul, 


150 


VICE VERSA. 


at its close, after a trying course of emotions, in a state of deli- 
cious ecstasy of pure relief and happiness — and really that 
scarcely seems too strong an expression for his feelings. 

When he found himself locked securely into a comfortable, 
waim bedroom, with curtains and a carpet in it, safe from the 
.persecutions of all those terrible boys, and when he remembered 
that this was actually the last night of his stay here — that he 
would certainly see his own home before noon next day — the 
reaction was so powerful that he could not refrain from 
skipping and leaping about the room in a kind of hysterical 
gayety. 

And as he laid his head down on a yielding lavender-scented 
pillow, his thoughts went back without a pang to the varied 
events of the day; they had been painful, very painful, but it 
was well worth while to have gone through them to appreciate 
fully the delightful intensity of the contrast. He freely forgave 
all his tormentors, even Chawner, for had not Chawner pro- 
cured his release? and he closed his eyes at last with a smile of 
Sybaritic satisfaction and gentle longing for the Monday’s dawn 
to break. 

And yet some, after his experiences, would have had their 
misgivings. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A RESPITE. 

“ Discipularum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.” 

Blithe and gay was Mr. Bultitude when he opened his eyes 
on Monday morning and realized his incredible good fortune; 
in a few hours he would be traveling safely and comfortably 
home, with every facility for regaining his rights. He chuckled 
— though his sense of humor was not large — he chuckled, as he 
lay snugly in bed, to think of Dick’s discomfiture on seeing him 
return so unexpectedly; he began to put it down, quite unwar- 
rantably, to his own cleverness, as having conceived and execu- 
ted such a stroke of genius as procuring his own expulsion. 

He remained in bed until long after the getting-up bell had 
rung, feeling that his position insured him perfect impunity in 
this, and when he rose at length it was in high spirits, and he 
dressed himself with a growing toleration for things in general, 


VICE VERSA. 


151 


very unlike his ordinary frame of mind. When he had finished 
his toilet, the doctor entered the room. 

“Bultitude,” lie said, gravely, ‘‘before sending you from us, 
I should like to hear from your own lips that you are not alto- 
gether without contrition for your conduct.” 

Mr. Bultitude considered that such an acknowledgment could 
not possibly do any harm, so he said — as, indeed, he might 
with perfect truth — that “he very much regretted what had 
passed.” 

“I am glad to hear that,” said the doctor, more briskly, 
“very glad; it relieves me from a very painful responsibility. 
It may not impossibly induce me to take a more lenient view of 
your case.” 

“Oh!” gasped Mr. Bultitude, feeling very uncomfortable all 
at once. 

“ Yes; it is a serious step to ruin a boy’s career at its outset 
by unnecessary harshness. Nothing, of course, can palliate the 
extreme baseness of your behavior. Still, from certain faint in- 
dications in your character of nobler things, I do not despair 
even yet (after you have received a public lesson at my hands, 
which you will never forget) of rearing you to become an orna- 
ment to the society in which it will be your lot to move. I will 
not give up in despair — I will persevere a little longer.” 

“Thank you!” Paul faltered, with a sudden sinking sensa- 
tion. 

“Mrs. Grimstone, too,” said the doctor, “ has been interced- 
ing for you; she has represented to me that a public expression 
of my view of your conduct, together with a sharp, severe dose 
of physical pain, would be more likely to effect a radical im- 
provement in your character, and to soften your perverted 
heart, than if I sent you away in open disgrace, without giving 
you an opportunity of showing a desire to amend.” 

“It’s — very kind of Mrs. Grimstone,” said Paul, faintly. 

“ Then I hope you will show your appreciation of her kind- 
ness. Yes, I will not expel you. I will give you one more 
chance to retrieve your lost reputation. But, for your own 
sake, and as a public warning, I shall take notice of your offense 
in public. I shall visit it upon you by a sound flogging before 
the whole school at eleven o’clock. You need not come down 
till then; your breakfast will be sent up to you.” 

Paul made a frantic attempt to dissuade him from his terrible 
determination. “Dr. Grimstone,” he said, “I — I should much 
prefer being expelled, if it is all the same to you.” 

“It is not all the same to me,” said the doctor. “This is 
mere pride and obstinacy, Bultitude; I should do wrong to take 
any notice of it. ” 

“I — I tell you I have great objection to — to being flogged,” 


152 


VICE VERSA. 


said Paul, eagerly; “it wouldn’t improve me at all; it would 
harden me, sir— harden me. I — I cannot allow you to ilog me. 
Dr. Grimstone. I have strong prejudices agajnsib the system of 
corporal punishmeut. I object to it on principle. Expulsion 
would make me quite a different being; I assure you; it would 
reform me — save me — it Avould indeed.” 

“ So, to escape a little personal inconvenience, you would be 
content to bring sorrow upon your worthy father’s gray head, 
would you, sir?” said the doctor; “I shall not oblige you in 
this. Nor, I may add, will your cowardice induce me to spare 
you in your coming chastisement. I leave you, sir; we shall 
meet again at eleven!” 

And he stalked out of the room. Perhaps, though he did not 
admit this even to himself, there were more considerations for 
commuting the sentence of expulsion than those he had men- 
tioned. Boys are not often expelled from private schools, ex- 
cept for especially heinous offenses, and in this case there was 
no real reason why the doctor should be Quixotic enough to 
throw up a portion of his income — particularly if he could pro- 
duce as great a moral effect by other means. 

But his clemency was too much for Mr. Bultitude; he threw 
himself on the bed and raved at the hideous fate in store for 
him; ten short minutes ago, and he had been so happy — so cer- 
tain of release — and now, not only was he as far from all hope 
of escape as ever, but he had the certainty before him of a 
sound flogging in less than two hours! 

Just after something has befallen us which, for good or ill, 
will make a great change in our lives, what a totally new asx)ect 
the common every-day things about us are apt to wear — the book 
we were reading, the letter we had begun, the jneture we knew^ — 
what a new and tender attraction they may have for us, or what 
a grim and terrible irony! 

Something of this Paul felt dimly, as he finished dressing, in 
a dazed, unconscious manner. The comfortable bedroom, with 
its delicately-toned w^all-paper and flowery cretonnes^ had be- 
come altogether hateful in his eyes now. Instead of feeling 
grateful (as he surely ought to have been) for the one night of 
perfect security and comfort he had passed there, he only 
loathed it for the delusive peace it had brought him. 

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Dulcie came in, bear- 
ing a tray with his breakfast, and looking like a little royalist 
bearing food to a fugitive cavalier; though Paul did not quite 
carry out his share of the simile. 

“There!” she said, almost cheerfully, “I got mamma to let 
me take up your breakfast; and there’s an egg for you, and 
muffins.” 

Mr. Bultitude sat on a chair and groaned. 


VICE VERSA. 


153 


“ Yon might say ‘ Thank you,’ ” said Dulcie, pouting. “ That 
other girl wouldn’t have brought you up much breakfast if she’d 
been in my place. I was going to tell you that I’d forgiven you, 
because very likely you never meant her to write to you ” {Dul- 
cie had not been told the sequel to the Davenant episode, which 
was quite as well for Paul). “But you don’t seem to care 
whether I do or not.” 

“ I feel so miserable!” sighed Paul. 

“Then you must drink some coffee,” prescribed Dulcie, de- 
cidedly; “and you must eat some breakfast. I brought an egg 
on j)urpose; it’s so strengthening, you know.” 

“Don’t!” cried Paul, with a short liowl of distress at this 
suggestion. “Don’t talk about the — the flogging; I can’t 
bear it.” 

“But it’s not papa’s new cane, you know, Dick,” said Dul- 
cie, consolingly. “I’ve hidden that; it’s only the old one, and 
you always said that didn’t hurt so very much, after a little 
while. It isn’t as if it was the horsewhip, either. Papa lost 
that out riding in the holidays.” 

“ Oh, the horsewhip’s worse, is it?” said Paul, with a sickly 
smile. 

“ Tom says so,” said Dulcie. “ After all, Dick, it will be all 
over in five minutes, or, perhaps, a little longer, and I do thiuk 
you oughtn’t to mind that so much, now, after mamma and I 
have begged you off from being expelled. We might never 
Lave seen one another again, Dick!” 

“ You begged me off!” cried Paul. 

“Yes,” said Dulcie; “papa wouldn’t change his mind for ever 
so long — till I coaxed him. I couldn’t bear to let you go.” 

“You’ve done a very cruel thing,” said Paul. “For such a 
little girl as you are, you’ve done an immense amount of mis- 
cliief. But for you, that letter would not liave been found out. 
You need not have spoiled my only chance of getting out of this 
horrible place!” 

Dulcie set down the tray, and, putting her hands behind her, 
leaned against a corner of a wardrobe. 

“ And is that all you say to me?” she said, with a little trem- 
ble in her voice. 

“ That is all,” said Paul. “ I’ve no doubt you meant well, 
i>ut you shouldn’t have interfered. All this has come upon me 
through that. Take away the breakfast. It makes me ill even 
to look at it.” 

Dulcie shook out her long brown hair, and clinched her pretty 
Avhite fist in an undeniable j^assion, for she had something of 
her father’s hot temper when roused. “Very well, then,” she 
said, moving with great dignity toward the door. “I’m very 
sorry I ever did interfere. I wish I’d let you be sent home to 


154 


VICE VERSA. 


your papa, and s^e what he’d do to you. But I’ll never, never 
interfere one bit with you again. I won’t say one single word 
to you any more. . . . I’ll never even look at you if you want 
me to ever so much. ... I shall tell Tipping he can hit you as 
much as ever he likes, and I shall show Tom where I put the 
new cane — and I only hope it will hurt!” And with this part- 
ing shot she was gone. 

Mr. Bultitude wandered disconsolately about the upper part 
of the house after this, not daring to go down, and not able to 
remain in any one place. The maids who came up to make the 
beds looked at him with pitiful interest, but he was too proud 
to implore help from them. To hide would only make matters 
worse, for, as he had not a penny in his pocket, and no proba- 
bility of being able to borrow one, he must remain in the house 
till hunger forced him from his hiding-place — sujjposing they 
did not hunt him out long before that time. 

The shouts of the boys in the playground during their half- 
hour’s play had long since died away ; he heard the clock in the 
hall strike eleven — time for him to seek his awful rendezvous. 
The doctor had not forgotten him, he found, for presently the 
butler ceremoniously announced that the doctor “ would see 
him now, if he pleased.” 

He stumbled down-stairs in a half-unconscious condition, the 
butler threw open the two doors which led to the schoolroom, 
and Paul tottered in, more dead than alive with shame and fear. 

The-whole school were at their places, with no books before 
them, and arranged as if to hear a lecture. Mr. Blinkhorn alone 
was absent, for, not liking these exhibitions, he had taken an 
opportunity of slipping out into the playground, round which 
he was now solemnly trotting at the “double,” with elbows 
squared and head up, an exercise which he said was an excel- 
lent thing for the back and lungs. He had a habit of suddenly 
leaving the class he was taking, to indulge in it for a few min- 
utes, returning breathless but refreshed. 

Mr. Tinkler was at his seat, wearing that faint grin on his face 
with which one prejiares to see a pig killed or a bull-fight, and 
all the boys fixed th^ir eyes expectantly on Mr. Bultitude as he 
appeared at the doorway. 

“ Stand there, sir,” said the doctor, who was standing at his 
writing-table in an attitude; “out there in the middle, where 
your school-fellows can see you.” 

Paul obeyed, and stood where he was told, looking, as he felt, 
absolutely boneless. 

“Some of those here,” began the doctor, in an impressive bass, 
“may wonder why I have called you all together on this, the 
first day of the week; most of those who reside under my roof 


VICE VERSA. 155 

are acquainted with, and I trust execrate, the miserable cause of 
my doing so. 

‘ ‘ If there is one virtue which I have striven to implant more 
than any other in your breasts,” he continued, “ it is the culti- 
vation of a modest and becoming reserve in your intercourse 
with those of the opposite sex. 

“ With the majority I have, I hope, been successful, and it is 
as painful for me to tell as for you to hear, that there exists in 
your midst a youthful reprobate, trained in all the arts of en- 
snaring the vagrant fancies of innocent but giddy girlhood. 

“ See him as he cowers there before your gaze, in all the bared 
hideousness of his moral depravity ” (the doctor, on occasions 
like these, never spared his best epithets, and Paul soon began 
to feel himself a very villain); “ a libertine, young in years, but 
old in — in everything else, who has not scrupled to indite an 
amatory note, so appalling in its familiarity, and so outrageous 
in the warmth of its sentiments, that I cannot bring myself to 
shock your ears with its contents. 

“ You do well to shun him as a moral leper; but how shall I 
tell you that, not satisfied with pressing his effusions upon the 
shrinking object of his precocious affections, the miserable being 
has availed himself of the shelter of a church to cloak his insid- 
ious advances, and even forces a response to them from a heed- 
less and imprudent girl! 

“ If,” continued the doctor, now allowing his powerful voice 
to boom to its full compass — “ if I can succeed in bringing this 
coward, this unmanly dallier in a sentiment which the healthy 
mind of boyhood rejects as premature, to a sense of his detest- 
able conduct; if I can score the lesson upon his flesh so that 
some faint notion of its force and purport may be conveyed to 
what has been supplied to him as a heart, then I shall not have 
lifted this hand in vain! 

“ He shall see whether he will be allowed to trail the fair 
name of the school, for propriety and correctness of deportment, 
in the dust of a pew-floor, and spurn my reputation as a pre- 
ceptor like a church hassock beneath his feet! 

“ I shall say no more; I will not prolong these strictures, de- 
served though they be, beyond their proper limits. ... I 
shall now proceed to act. Richard Bultitude, remain there till 
I return to mete out to you with no sparing hand the punish- 
ment you have so richly merited.” 

With these awful words the doctor left the room, leaving Paul 
in a state of abject horror and dread which need not be described. 
Never, never again would he joke, as he had been wont to do 
with Dick in lighter moods, on the subject of corporal punish- 
ment under any circumstances, it was no fit* theme for levity; if 
this — this outrage were really done to him, he could never be 


156 VICE VERSA. 

able to bold up bis bead again. Wbat if it were to get about in 
tbe city! 

Tbe boys, wbo bad sunk, as they always did, into a state of 
torpid awe under the doctor’s eloquence, now recovered spirits 
enough to rally Paul with much sprightly humor. 

“He’s gone to fetch his cane,” said some, and imitated for 
Paul’s instruction the action of caning by slapping a ruler upon 
a copy-book with a dreadful fidelity and resonance; others 
sought to cross-examine him upon the love-letter; it appearing 
from their casual remarks that not a few had been also honored 
by communications from the artless Miss Davenant. 

"it is astonishing how unfeeling even ordinary good-natured 
boys can be at times. 

Sludge sat at his desk with raised shoulders, rubbing his hands, 
and grinning like some malevolent ape. “I told you, Dicky, 
you know,” he murmured, “that it was better not to cross 
me.” 

And still the doctor lingered. Some kindly suggested that he 
was ‘ ‘ waxing the cane. ” But the more general opinion was that 
he had been detained by some visitor; for it appeared that 
(though Paul had not noticed it) several had heard a ring at 
the bell. The suspense was growing more and more unbeara- 
ble. 

At last the door opened in a slow, ominous manner, and the 
doctor appeared. There was a visible change in his manner, 
however. The white heat of his indignation bad died out; his 
expression was grave but distinctly softened — and he had noth- 
ing in his hand. 

“ I want you outside, Bultitude,” he said; and Paul, still un- 
certain whether the scene of his disgrace was only about to be 
shifted, or what else this might mean, followed him into the 
hall. 

“If anything can strike shame and confusion into your soul, 
Richard,” said the doctor, when they were outside, “it will be 
what I have to tell you now. Your unhappy father is here, in 
the dining-room.” 

Paul staggered. Had Dick the brazen effrontery to come 
here to taunt him in his slavery? What was the meaning of it? 
What should he say to him? He could not answer the doctor 
but by a vacant stare. 

“I have not seen him yet,” said the doctor. “ He has come 
at a most inopportune moment ” (here Mr. Bultitude could not 
agree with him). “ I shall allow you to meet him first, and 
give you the opportunity of breaking your conduct to him. I 
know how it will 'wring his paternal heart!” and the doctor 
shook his head sadly, and turned away. 

With a curious mixture of shame, anger, and impatience. 


VICE VERSA. 


157 


Paul turned the handle of the dining-room door. He was to 
meet Dick face to face once more. The final duel must be 
fought out between them here. Who would be the victor? 

It was a strange sensation on entering to see the image of 
what he had so hitely been standing by the mantel-piece. It 
gave a shock to his sense of his own identity. It seemed so im- 
possible that that stout, substantial frame could really contain 
Dick. For an instant he was totally at a loss for words, and 
stood pale and speechless in the presence of his unprincipled 
son. 

Dick on his side seemed at least as much embarrassed. He 
giggled uneasily, and made a sheepish ofler to shake hands, 
which was indignantly declined. 

As Paul looked he saw distinctly that his son’s fraudulent im- 
itation of his father’s personal appearance had become deterior- 
ated in many respects since that unhappy night when he had 
last seen it. It was then a copy, faultlessly accurate in every 
detail. It was now almost a caricature, a libel! 

The complexion was nearly sallow, with the exception of the 
nose, which had rather deepened in color. The skin was loose 
and flabby, and the eyes dull and a little bloodshot. Bnt, per- 
liaps the greatest alteration was in the dress. Dick wore an old 
light tweed shooting coat of his, and a pair of loose trousers of 
bine serge; while, instead of the formally tied black neckcloth 
his father had worn for a quarter of a century, he had a large 
scarf round his neck of some crude and gaudy color; and the 
conventional chimney-pot hat had been discarded for a shabby 
old wide-brimmed felt wideawake. 

Altogether, it was by no means the costume which a British 
merchant, with any self-respect whatever, would select, even for 
a country visit. 

And thus they met, as perhaps never, since this world was 
first set spinning down the ringing grooves of change, met 
father and son before! 


158 


VICE VERSA. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AN EKKOR OF JUDGMENT. 

‘‘ The Survivorship of a worthy Man in his Son is a Pleasure scarce 
inferior to the Hopes of the Continuance of his own Life.” — Specta- 
tor, 


Du hist ein Knabe — sei es immerhin 
Und fahre fort, den Frohlichen zu spielen. 

— Schiller, Don Carlos. 

Paul was the first to break a very awkward silence. 

“You young scoundrel!” he said with suppressed rage. 
“What the devil do you mean by laughing like that? It’s no 
laughing matter, let me tell you, sir, for one of us!” 

“ I can’t help laughing,” said Dick; “ you do look so queer!” 

“ Queer! I may well look queer. I tell you that I have never, 
never in my whole life spent such a perfectly infernal week as 
this last!” 

“All!” observed Dick, “I thought you wouldn’t find it all 
jam! And yet you seemed to be enjoying yourself, too,” he 
said, with a grin, “ from that letter you wrote.” 

“ What made you come here? Couldn’t you be content with 
your miserable victory without coming down to crow and jeer 
at me?” 

“ It isn’t that,” said Dick. I — I thought I should like to see 
the fellows, and find out how you were getting on, you know.” 

These, however, were not h’is only and his principal motives. 
He had come down to get a sight of Dulcie. 

“ Well, sir,” said Mr. Bultitude, with ponderous sarcasm, 
“3’ou’ll be delighted to hear that I’m getting on uncommonly 
well — oh, uncommonly! Your high-spirited young friends bat- 
ter me to sleep with slippers on most nights, and, as a general 
thing, kick me about during the day like a confounded football! 
And last night, sir, I was going to be expelled; and this morn- 
ing I’m forgiven and sentenced to be soundly flogged before the 
whole school! It was just about to take place as you came in; 
and I’ve every reason to believe it is merely postponed!” 

“I say, though,” said Dick, “you must have been going it, 
rather, you know. I've never been expelled. Has Chawner been 
sneaking again? What have you been up to?” 

“ Nothing. I solemnly swear — nothing! They’re finding out 
things you’ve done, and thrashing me.” 

“Well,” said Dick, soothingly, “you’ll work them all off 


VICE VERSA. 


159 


during the term, I daresay. There aren’t many really bad ones. 
I suppose he’s seen my name cut on his writing-table?” 

“ No; not that I’m aware of,” said Paul. 

“ Oh, he’d let you hear of it if he had!” said Dick. “It’s 
good for a whacking, that is. But, after all, what’s a whacking? 
I never cared for a whacking.” 

“ But I do care, sir. I care very much, and, I tell you, I won’t 
stand it. I can’t! Dick,” he said, abruptly, as a sudden hope 
seized him. “ You — you haven’t come down here to say you’re 
tired of your folly, have you? Do you want to give it up?” 

“Rather not,” said Dick. “ Why should I? No school, no 
lessons, nothing to do but amuse myself, eat and drink what I 
like, and lots of money. It’s not likely, you know.” 

“ Have you ever thought that you’re bringing yourself within 
reach of the law, sir?” said Paul, trying to frighten him. “Per- 
haps you don’t know that there’s an offense known as ‘ false 
personation with intent to defraud,’ and that it’s a felony. That’s 
wdiat you’re doing at this moment, sir!” 

“ Not any more than you are!” retorted Dick. “ I never began 
it. I had as much right to wish to be you as you had to wish 
to be me. You’re just what you said you wanted to be, so yon 
can’t complain.” 

“It’s useless to argue with you, I see,” said Paul. “And 
you’ve no feelings. But I’ll warn you of one thing. Whether 
that is my body or not you’ve fraudulently taken possession of, 
I don’t know; if it is not, it is very like mine, and I tell you 
this about it. The sort of life you are leading it, sir, will very 
soon make an end of you, if you don’t take care. Do you think 
that a constitution at my age can stand sweet wines and pastry, 
and late hours? Why, you’ll be laid up with gout in another 
day or two. Don’t tell me, sir. I know you’re suffering from 
indigestion at this very minute*. I can see your liver (it may be 
my liver for anything I know) is out of order. I can see it in 
your eyes.” 

Dick was a little alarmed at this, but he soon said: “Well, 
and if I am seedy, I can get Barbara to take the stone and wish 
me all right again. Can’t I? That’s easy enough, I suppose?” 

“Oh, easy enough!” said Paul, with a suppressed groan. 
“ But, Dick, you don’t go up to Mincing Lane in that suit and 
that hat? Don’t tell me you do that!” 

“When I do go up, I wear them,” said Dick, composedly. 
“Why not? It’s a roomy suit, and I hate a great topper on my 
head; Pve had enough of that here on Sundays. But it’s slow 
up at your office. The chaps there aren’t half up to any larks. 
I made a first-rate booby-trap, though, one day for an old yel- 
low buffer who came in to see you. He was in a bait when he 
found the waste-paper basket on his head!” 


160 


VICE VERSA. 


“ What was his name?” said Paul, with forced calm. 

** Something like ‘Shells.’ He said he was a very old friend 
of mine, and I told him he lied.” 

“Shellack— my Canton correspondent — a man I was anxious 
to l)e of use to when he came over!” moaned Mr. Bultitude. 
“ Miserable young cub, you don’t know what mischief you’ve 
done!” 

“Well, it won’t matter much to you now,” said Dick; “you’re 
out of it all.” 

“ Do you — do you mean to keep me out of it forever, then?” 
asked Paul. 

“ As long as ever I can!” returned Dick, frankly. “ It will be 
rather interesting to see what sort of a fellow you’ll grow into — 
if you ever do grow. Perhaps you will always be like that, you 
know. This magic is a rum thing to meddle with.” 

This suggestion almost maddened Paul. He made one stride 
forward, and faced his son with blazing eyes. “Do you think 
I will put up with it?” he said, between "his teeth. “Do you 
suppose I shall stand calmly hj and see you degrading and 
ruining me? I may never be my old self again, but I don’t 
mean to play into your hands for all that. You can’t always 
keep me here, and wherever I go I’ll tell my tale. I know you, 
you clumsy rogue, you haven’t the sense to play your part with 
common intelligence now. You would betray yourself directly 
I challenged to deny my story. . . . You know you would. . . 
You couldn’t face me for five minutes. By Gad! I’ll do it now. 
1 11 expose you before the doctor — before the whole school. 
You shall see if you can dispose of me quite so easilv as you im- 
agine!” 

Dick had started back, at first, in unmistakable alarm at this 
unexpected defiance, probably feeling his self-possession un- 
equal to such, a test; but, when Paul had finished, he said, dog- 
gedly: “Well, you can do it if you choose, I suppose. I can’t 
stop you. But I don’t see what good it would do.” 

“It would show people you were an impudent impostor, 
sir,” said Paul, sternly, going to the door as if to call the doctor,, 
though he shrank secretly from so extreme and dangerous a 
measure. ^ 

There was a hesitation in his manner, in spite of the firmness 
of his words, which Dick was not likely to miss. “ Stop!” he 
said. “ Before you call them in, just listen to me for a min- 
ute. Do you see this?” And opening his coat, he pulled out from 
his waistcoat-pockec one end of his watch-chain. Hanging to it, 
attached by a cheap, gilt fastening of some sort, was a small 
gray tablet. Paul knew it at once — it was the Garuda Stone. 
“ You know it, I see,” said Dick, as Paul was about to move 
toward him — with what object he scarcely knew himself. “Don’t 


VICE VERSA. 


161 


tronble to come any closer. Well, I give you fair warning. 
You can make things very nasty for me if you like. I can’t help 
that; but, if you do, if you try to score off me in any way, now 
or at any time, if you don’t keep it up when the doctor comes 
in, I tell you what I shall do. I shall go straight home and find 
young Roly. I shall give him this stone, and just tell him to 
say some wish after me. I don’t believe there are many things 
it can’t do, and all I can say is, if you find yourself and all this 
jolly old school (except Dulcie) taken off somewhere and stuck 
down, all at once, thousands of miles away, on a desolate island, 
or see yourself turned into a red Indian, or — or a cab-horse, 
you’ll have yourself to thank for it, that’s all. Now you can 
have them all up and fire away.” 

“No,” said Paul, in a broken voice, for, wild as the threat 
was, he could not afford to despise it after his experiences of 
the stone’s power, “I — I was joking, Dick; at least, I didn’t 
mean it. I know, of course, I’m helpless. It’s a sad thing for 
a father to say, but you’ve got the best of it. I give in. I 
won’t interfere with you. There’s only one thing I ask. You 
won’t try any more experiments with that miserable stone. 
You’ll promise me that, at least?” 

“Yes,” said Dick; “it’s all right. I'll play fair. As long as 
you behave yourself and back me up I won’t touch it. I only 
want to stay as I am. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“ You won’t lose it?”' said Paul, anxiously. “ Couldn’t you 
lock it up? that fastening doesn’t look very safe.” 

“ It will do well enough,” said Dick. “I got it done at the 
watchmaker’s round the corner, for sixpence. But I’ll have a 
stronger ring put in somewhere if i think of it. ” 

There was a pause, in which the conversation seemed about 
to flag hopelessly, but at last Dick said, almost as if he felt 
some compunction for his present unfilial attitude: “ Now, you 
know, it’s much better to take things quietly. It can’t be al- 
tered now, can it? And it’s not such bad fun being a boy after 
all— -for some things. You’ll get into it by and by, you see if 
you don’t, and be as jolly as a sandboy. We shall get along all 
right together, too. I sha’n’t be hard on you. It isn’t my 
fault that you happen to be at this particular school. You 
chose it! And after this term you can go to any other school 
you like — Eton or Rugby, or anywhere. I don’t mind the ex- 
pense. Or, if you’d rather, you can have a private tutor. And 
I’ll buy you a pony, and you can ride in the Row. You shall 
have a much better time of it than I ever had, as long as you 
let me go on my own way.” 

But these dazzling bribes had no influence upon Mr. Bulti- 
tude; nothing short of complete restitution would ever satisfy 


162 


VICE VERSA. 


him, and he was too proud and too angry at his crushing defeat 
to even pretend to be in the least pacified. 

“I don’t want your pony,” he said, bitterly; “I might as 
well have a white elephant, and I don’t suppose I should enjoy 
myself much more at a public school than I do here. Let’s 
have no humbug, sir. You’re up and I’m down — there’s no 
more to be said— I shall tell the doctor nothing, but I warn you, 
if ever the time comes ” 

“Oh, of course,” said Dick, feeling tolerably secure, now he 
had disposed of the main difficulty. “If you can turn me out, 
I suppose you will — that’s only fair. I shall take care not to 
give you the chance. And, oh, I say, do you want any tin? 
How much have you got left?” 

Paul turned away his head, lest Dick should see the sudden 
exultation he knew must appear, as he said, with an effort to 
appear unconcerned: “I came away with exactly five shillings, 
and I haven’t a penny left.” 

“I say,” said Dick, “you are a fellow ; you must have been 
going it. How did you get rid of it all in a week?” 

“ It went, as far as . I can understand,” said Mr. Bultitude, 
“ in rabbits and mice. Some boys claimed it as money they 
paid you to get them, I believe. ” 

“All your own fault,” said Dick; “you would have them 
drowned. But you’d better have some tin to get along with. 
How much do you want? Will half a crown do?” 

“Half a crown is not much, Dick,” said his father, almost 
humbly. 

“It’s — ahem — a handsome allowance for a young fellow like 
you,” said Dick, rather unkindly; “but I haven’t any half- 
crowns left. I must give you this, I suppose.” 

And he held out a sovereign, never dreaming what it signified 
to Paul, who clutched it with feelings too great for words, 
though gratitude was not a part of them, for was it not his own 
money? 

“And now look out,” said Dick; “I hear Grim. Remember 
^what I told you; keep it up.” 

Dr. Grimstone came in with the air of a man who has a pain- 
ful duty to perform; he started slightly as his eye noted the 
change in his visitor’s dress and appearance. “I hope,” he be- 
gan gravely, “ that your son has spared me the pain of going 
into the details of his misbehavior; I wish I could give you a 
better report of him.” 

Dick was plainly, in spite of his altered circumstances, by no 
means at ease in the schoolmaster’s presence; he stood, shifting 
from foot to foot on the hearth-rug, turning extremely red and 
obstinately declining to raise his eyes from the ground. 


VICE VERSA. 


163 


“Oil, all,” he stammered at last, “you were just going to 
whack him, weren’t you, when I turned up, sir?” 

“1 found myself forced,” said the doctor, slightly shocked at 
this coarse way of putting things — “ forced to contemplate ad- 
ministering to him (for his ultimate benefit) a sharp corrective 
in the presence of his schoolfellows. I distress you, I see, but 
the truth must be told. He has no doubt confessed his fault to 
you?” 

“ No,” said Dick, “ he hasn’t, though. What’s he been up to 
now?” 

“I had hoped he would have been more open, more straight- 
forward, when confronted with the father who has proved him- 
self so often indulgent and anxious for his improvement ; it 
would have been a more favorable symptom, I think. Well, I 
must tell you myself. I know too well what a shock it will be 
to your scrupulously sensitive moral code, my dear Mr. Bulti- 
tiule ” (Dick showed a painful inclination to giggle here); but I 
have to break to you the melancholy truth that I detected this 
unhappy boy in the act of conducting a secret and amorous cor- 
respondence with a young lady in a sacred edifice!” 

Dick whistled sharply. “Oh, I say!” he cried, “that’s bad!” 
(and he wagged his head reprovingly at his disgusted father, 
wlio longed to denounce his hypocrisy, but dared not); “ that’s 
bad ... he shouldn’t do that sort of thing, you know, should 
he? At his age, too . . . the young dog!” 

“This horror is what I should have expected from you,” said 
the doctor (though he was in truth more than scandalized by 
the composure with which his annoucement was received). 
“ Such boldness is indeed characteristic of the dog, an animal 
which, as you are aware, was with the ancients a synonym 
for shamelessness. No boy, how’ever abandoned, should hear 
such words of unequivocal condemnation from a father’s lips 
without a pang of shame!” 

Paul was only just able to control his rage by a great effort. 

“ You’re right there, sir,” said Dick; “he ought to be well 
ragged for it . . . he’ll break my heart, if he goes on like 

this, the young beggar. But we musn’t be too hard on him, 
eh? After all, it’s nature, you know, isn’t it?” 

“ I beg your pardon?” said Dr. Grimstone, very stiffly. 

“I mean,” explained Dick, with a perilous approach to 
digging the other in the ribs, “we did much the same sort of 
thing in our time, eh? I’m sure I did — lots of times!” 

“ I can’t reproach myself on that head, Mr. Bultitude; and 
permit me to say that such a tone of treating the affair is apt to 
destroy the effect, the excellent moral effect, of your most im- 
pressively conveyed indignation just now. I merely give you a 
hint, you understand!” 


164 


VICE VERSA. 


‘‘Oil, ah,” said Dick, feeling that he had made a mistake; 

“ yes, I didn’t mean that. But, I say, you haven’t given him a 
— a whopping yet, have you?” 

“I had just stepped out to procure a cane for that purpose,” 
said the doctor, when your name was announced.” 

“ Well, look here, you won’t want to start again when I’m 
gone, will you?” 

“An ancient philosopher, my dear sir, was accustomed 
to postpone the correction of his slaves until the first glow of 
his indignation had passed away. He found then that he 
could ” ^ 

“Lay it on with more science,” suggested Dick, while Paul 
wiithed where he stood. “Perhaps so, but you might forgive 
him How, don’t you tiiink? he won’t do it again. If he goes 
writing any more love-letters, tell me, and I’ll come and talk 
to him; but he’s had a lesson, you know. Let him off this 
time.” 

“I have no right to resist such an entreaty,” said the doctor, 

“ though I may be inclined myself to think that a few strokes 
would render the lesson more permanent. I must ask you to 
reconsider your plea for his pardon.” 

Paul heard this with indescriblo anxiety; he had begun to 
feel tolerably sure that his evil hour was postponed sine die, 
but might net Dick be cruel and selfish enough to remain 
neutral, or even side with the enemy, in support of his assumed 
character? 

Luckily he was not. “I’d rather let him off,” he said, awk- 
wardly; “I don’t approve of caning fellows myself. It never 
did me any good, I know, and I got enough of it to tell.” 

“Well, well, I yield. Richard, your father has interceded 
for you; and I cannot disregard his wishes, though I have my 
own view in the matter. You will hear no more of this disgrace- 
ful conduct, sir, unless you do something to recall it to my 
memory. Thank your father for his kindness, which you so 
little deserved, and take your leave of him.” 

“Oh, there, it’s all right!” said Dick; “ he’ll behave himself 
after this, I know. And, oh! I say, sir,” he added, hastily, 
“is — is Dulcie anywhere about?” 

“My daughter?” asked the doctor. “ Would vou like to see 
her?” 

“I shouldn’t mind,” said Dick, blushing furiously. 

“I’m sorry to say she has gone out for a walk with her 
mother,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid she cannot be back for 
some time. It’s unfortunate.’’ 

Dick’s face fell. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, awkwardly. 
“She’s all right, I hope?” 


VICE VERSA. 


165 


“ She is very seldom ailing, I’m happy to say; just now she’s 
particularly well, thank you.” 

Oh, is she?” said Dick, gloomily, probably disappointed to 
find that he was so little missed, and not suspecting that his 
father had been accepted as a substitute. 

“Well, do you mind — could I see the fellows again for a 
minute or two — I mean I should rather like to inspect the 
school, you know.” 

“See my boys? Certainly, my dear sir, by all means; this 
Wily,” and he took Dick out to the schoolroom, Paul following 
out of curiosity. “ You’ll find us at our studies, you see,” said 
the doctor, as he opened the first baize door. There was a sus- 
picious hubbub and hum of voices from within; but as they 
entered every boy was bent over his books with the wrapt 
absorption of the devoted student — an absorption that was the 
direct effect of the sound the door-handle made in turning. 

“Our workshop,” said the doctor, airily, looking round. 
“ My first form, Mr. Bultitude. Somo good workers here, and 
some idle ones.” 

Dick stood in the doorway, looking (if the truth must be told) 
uncommonly foolish. He had wanted, in coming there, to enjoy 
the contrast between the past and the present — which accounts 
for a good many visits of “ old boys” to the scene of their edu- 
cation. But, confronted with his former schoolfellows, he was 
seized at first with an utterly unreasonable fear of detection. 

The class behaved as classes usually do on such occasions. 
The good boys smirked and the bad ones stared, the general ex- 
pression being one of an uneasy curiosity. Dick said never a 
word, feeling strangely bashful and nervous. 

“ This is Tipping, my head boy,” touching that young gen- 
tleman on the shoulder, and making him several degrees more 
uncomfortable. “ I expect solid results from Tipping some 
day.” 

“He looks as if his head was pretty solid,” said Dick, who 
had once cut his knuckles against it. 

“My second boy, Biddlecomb. If he applies himself, he too 
will do me credit in the world.” 

“ How do, Biddlecomb?” said Dick. “I owe you ninepence 
— I mean — oh! hang it, here’s a shilling for you! Hallo, Chaw- 
ner!” he went on, gradually overcoming his first nervousness, 
“ how are you getting on, eh? Doing much in the sneaking 
way lately?” 

“ You know him?” exclaimed the doctor, with naive surprise. 

“ No, no; I don't know him. I’ve heard of him, you know — 
heard of him!” Chawner looked down his nose with a feeble 
attempt at a gratified simper, while his neighbors giggled with 
furtive relish. 


166 


VICE VERSA. 


“Well,” said Dick, at last, after a long look at all the old fa- 
miliar objects, “ I must be off, you know. Got some important 
business at home to look after. The fellows look verj jolly and 
content, and all that sort of thing. Enough to make one want 
to be a boy again almost, eh? Good-by, you chaps — ahem, 
young gentlemen, I wish you good-morning!” 

And he went out, leaving behind him the impression that 
“young Bultitude’s governor wasn’t half such a bad old 
buffer!” 

He paused at the open front door, to which Paul and the doc- 
'tor had accompanied him. “Good-by,” he said; “I wisli I’d 
seen Dulcie, I should like to see your daughter, sir; but it 
can’t be helped. Good-by; and you,” he added in a lower tone 
to his father, who was standing by, inexpressibly pained and 
disgusted by his utter want of dignity, “ you mind what I told 
you. Don’t try any games with me!” 

And, as he skipped jauntily down the steps to the gateway, 
the doctor followed his unwieldy, oddly-dressed form with his 
eyes, and, inclining his head gravely to Dick’s sweeping wave of 
the hand, asked, with a compassionate tone in his voice, “You 
don’t happen to know, Richard, my boy, if your father has had 
any business troubles lately — anything to disturb him?” 

And Mr. Bultitude’s feelings prevented him from making any 
intelligent reply. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE BUBICON. 

“My three schoolfellows, 

Whom I will trust — as I will adders fanged; 

They bear the mandate.” 

Paul never quite knew how the remainder of that day passed 
at Crichton House. He was ordered to join a class which w’as 
more or less engaged with some kind of work; he had a hazy 
idea that it w'as Latin, though it may have been Greek; but he 
was spared the necessity of taking any active part in the pro- 
ceedings, as Mr. Blinkhorn was not disposed to be too exacting 
with a boy who in one short morning had endured a sentence of 
expulsion, a lecture, the immediate prospect of a flogging, and 
a paternal visit, and, as before, mercifully left him alone. 


VICE VERSA. 


167 


His classmates, however, did not show the same chivalrous 
delicacy; and Paul had to’ suffer many unmannerly jests and 
gibes at his expense, frequent and anxious inquiries as to the 
exact nature of his treatment in the dining room, with sundry 
highly imaginative versions of the same, while there was much 
candid and unbiased comment on the apperance and conduct of 
himself and his son. 

But he bore it unprotesting — or, rather, he scarcely noticed 
it; for all his thoughts were now entirely taken up by one im- 
portant subject — the time and manner of his escape. 

Thanks to Dick’s thoughtless liberality, he had now ample 
funds to carry him safely home. It was hardly likely that any 
more unexpected claims could be brought against him now, x^ar- 
ticularly as he had no intention of publishing his return to sol- 
vency. He might reasonably consider himself in a position to 
make his escape at the very first favorable opportunity. 

When would that opportunity present itself? It must come 
soon. He could not wait long for it. Any hour might yet see 
him pounced upon and flogged heartily for some utterly un- 
known and unsuspected transgression; or the golden key which 
would unlock his prison bars might be lost in some unlucky 
moment; for his long series of reverses had made him loth to 
trust to fortune, even when she seemed to look smilingly once 
more upon him. 

Fortune’s countenance is apt to be so alarmingly mobile with 
some unfortunates. 

But in spite of the new facilities given him for escape, and his 
strong motives for taking advantage of them, he soon found, to 
his utter dismay, that he shrank from committing himself to so 
daring and dangerous a course, just as much as when he had 
tried to make a confidant of the doctor. 

For, after all, could he be sure of himself? Would his ilMuck 
suffer him to seize the one propitious moment, or would that 
fatal self-distrust and doubt that had paralyzed him for the past 
week seize him again just at the crisis? 

Suppose he did venture to take the first irrevocable stex), 
could he rely on himself to go through the rest of his hazardous 
enterprise? Was he cool and w^ary enough? He dared not ex- 
pect an uninterrupted run. Had he ruses and expedients at 
command on any sudden check? 

If he could not answer all these doubts favorably, was it not 
sheer madness to take to flight at all? 

He felt a dismal conviction that his success would have to de- 
pend, not on his own cunning, but on the forbearance or blind- 
ness of others. The slightest contretemps must infallibly upset 
him altogether. 

The fact was, he had all his life been engaged in the less 


168 


VICE VERSA. 


eventful and contentious branches of commerce. His will had 
seldom had to come in contact with others, and when it did so 
he had found means, being of a prudent and cautious tempera- 
ment, of avoiding disagreeable personal consequences by timely 
compromises or judicious employment of delegates. He had 
generally found his fellow-mcn ready to meet him reasonably as 
an equal or a superior. 

Bat now he must be prepared to see in every one he met a 
possible enemy, who would hand him over to the tyrant on the 
faintest suspicion. They were spies to be baffled or disarmed, 
pursuers to be eluded. The smallest slip in his account of him- 
self would be enough to undo him. 

No wonder that, as he thought over all this, his heart quailed 
within him. 

They say — the paradox-mongers say — that it requires a far 
higher degree of moral courage for a soldier in action to leave 
the ranks under fire and seek a less distinguished position to^ 
ward the rear, than would carry him on with the rest to charge 
a battery. 

This may be true, though it might not prove a very valuable 
defense at a court-martial; but, at all events, Mr. Bultitude 
found, when it came to the point, that it was almost impossible 
for him to screw up his courage to run away. 

It was not a pleasant state, this indecision whether to stay 
passively and risk the worst or avoid it by flight; and the worst 
of it is that, whatever course is eventually forced upon us, it 
finds us equally unprepared, and more liable from such inde- 
dision to bungle miserably in the sequel. 

Paul might never have gained heart to venture, but for an 
unpleasant incident that took place during dinner, and a discov- 
ery he made after it. 

They happened to have a particularly unpopular pudding 
that day; a pallid preparation of suet, with an infrequent cur- 
rant or two embalmed in it, and Paul was staring at his portion 
of this delicacy disconsolately enough, wondering how he 
should contrive to consume and, worse still, digest it, when his 
attention was caught by Jolland, who sat directly opposite 
him. 

That young gentleman, who evidently shared the general dis- 
like to the currant pudding, was inviting Mr. Bultitude’s atten- 
tion to a little contrivance of his own for getting rid of it, which 
consisted in delicately shoveling the greater part of what was 
oil his plate into a large envelope held below the table to re- 
ceive it. 

This struck Paul as a heaven-sent method of avoiding the 
difficulty, and he had just got the envelope which had held 
Barbara’s letter out of his pocket, intending to follow Jolland ’s 


VICE VERSA. 


169 


example, when the doctor’s voice made him start guiltily and 
replace the envelope in his pocket. 

“ Jolland,’’ said the doctor, “ what have you got there?” 

“An envelope, sir,” explained Jolland, who had now got the 
remains of his pudding safely bestowed. 

“ What is in that envelope?” said the doctor, who happened 
to have been watching him. 

“In the envelope, sir? Pudding, sir,” said Jolland, as if it 
were the most natural thing in the world to send bulky portions 
of pudding by post. 

“ And why did you place pudding in the envelope?” inquired ^ 
the doctor, in his deepest tone. 

Jolland felt a difficulty in explaining that he had done so be- 
cause he wished to avoid eating it, and with a view to interring 
it later on in the playground; he preferred silence. 

“ Shall I tell you why you did it, sir?” thundered the doctor. 
“You did it because you were scheming to obtain a second por- 
tion — because you did not feel yourself able to eat both portions 
at your leisure here, and thought to put by a part to devour in 
secret at a future time. It’s a most painful exhibition of pure 
piggishness. There shall be no pocketing at this table, sir. 
You will eat that pudding under my eye at once, and you will 
stay in and write out French verbs for two days. That will put 
an end to any more guzzling in the garden for a time, at least.” 

Jolland seemed stupefied, though relieved, by the unexpected 
construction put upon his conduct, as he gulped down the in- 
tercepted fragments of pudding, while the rest diligently cleared 
their plates with as much show of appreciation as they could 
muster. 

Mr. Bultitude shuddered at this one more narrow escape. If 
he had been detected — as he must have been in another instant 
— in smuggling pudding in an envelope, he might have incau- 
tiously betrayed his real motives, and then, as the doctor was 
morbidly sensitive as to all complaints of the fare he provided, 
he would have got into worse trouble than the unfortunate Jol- 
land, to say nothing of the humiliation of being detected in 
such an act. 

It was a solemn warning to him of the dangers he was exposed 
to hourly, while he lingered within those walls; but his position 
was still more strongly brought home to him by the terrible 
discovery he made shortly afterward. 

He was alone in the schoolroom, for the others had all gone 
down into the playground, except Jolland, who was confined in 
one of the classrooms below, when the thought came over him 
to test the truth of Dick’s hint about a name cut on the doctor’s 
writing-table. 

He stole up to it guiltily, and, lifting the slanting desk which 


170 


VICE VERSA. 


stood there, examined the surface below. Dick had been per- 
fectly correct. There it was, glaringly fresh and distinct, not 
large, but very deeply cut and fearfully legible, “ R. Bultitude.” 
It might have been done that day. Dick had probably per- 
formed it out of bravado, or under the impression that he was 
not going to return after the holidays. 

Paul dropped the desk over the fatal letters with a shudder. 
Tlie slightest accidental shifting of it must disclose them — noth- 
ing but a miracle could have kept them concealed so long. 
^Vllen they did come to light, he knew, from what he had seen 
of the doctor, that the act would be considered as an outrage of 
the blackest and most desperate kind. He would most unques- 
tionably get a flogging for it! 

He fetched a large pewter ink-pot, and tried nervously to 
blacken the letters with the tip of a quill, to make them, if pos- 
sible, rather less obtrusive than they were. All in vain; tliey 
only stood out with more startling vividness when picked out in 
black upon the brown-stained deal. He felt very like a con- 
science-stricken murderer trying to hide a corpse that wouldn't 
be buried. He gave it up at last, having only made a terrible 
mess with the ink. 

That settled it. He must fly. The flogging must be avoided 
at all hazards. If an opportunity delayed its coming, why, ho 
must do without the ojjportunity — he must make one. For 
good or ill, his mind was made up now for immediate flight. 

All that afternoon, while he sat trying to keep his mind upon 
long sums in Bills of Parcels, wdiich disgusted him as a business 
man, by the glaring improbability of their details, his eye wan- 
dered furtively down the long tables to where the doctor sat at 
the head of the class. Every chance movement of the princi- 
pal’s elbow filled him with a sickening dread. A hundred times 
those rudely carved letters seem about to start forth and de- 
nounce him. 

It was a disquieting afternoon for Paul. 

But the time dragged wearily on, and still the desk loyally 
kept its secret. The dusk drew on and the gas-burners were 
lit. The younger boys came up from the lower classroom and 
were sent out to play; the doctor shortly afterward dismissed 
his own class to follow them, and Paul and his comiianions had 
the room to themselves. 

He sat there on the rough form with his slate before him, 
hearing, lialf-unconsciously, the shouts, laughter, and ring of 
feet coming up from the darkness outside, and the faint notes 
of a piano, which filtered through the double doors from one of 
the rooms, where a boy was practicing Haydn’s “Surprise,” 
from Hamilton’s exercise book— a surprise wdiich he rendered as 
a mildly interjectional form of astonish men 


VICE VERSA. 


171 


All the time Paul was racked with an intense burning desire 
to get up and run for it then, before it became too late; but cold 
fits of doubt and fear preserved him from such lunacy; he 
would wait, his chance might come before long. 

His patience was rewarded; the doctor came in, looking at 
his watch, and said: 

“I think these boys have had enough of it, Mr. Tinkler, eh? 
You can send them out now till tea-time.” 

Mr. Tinkler, who had been entangling himself frightfully in 
intricate calculations upon the blackboard, without making a 
single convert, was only too glad to take advantage of the sug- 
gestion, and Paul followed the rest into the playground with a 
sense of relief. 

The usual “chevy” was going on there, with more spirit 
than usual, perhaps, because the darkness allowed of practical 
jokes and surprises, and offered great facilities for paying off 
old grudges with secrecy and dispatch, and, as yie doctor had 
come to the door of the greenhouse, and was looking on, the 
players exerted themselves still more, till the prison, to which 
most of which had been consigned by being run down and 
touched by their fleeter enemies, was filled wdth a long line of 
captives holding hands and calling out to be released. 

Paul, who had run out vaguely from his base, was promptly 
pursued and made prisoner by an unnecessarily vigorous thump 
in the back, after which he took his place at the' bottom of the 
line of imprisoned ones. 

But the enemy’s spirit began to slacken; one after another of 
the players still left to the opposite side succeeded in outruiir 
ning pursuit and touching the foremost prisoner for the time 
being so as to set him free by the rules of the game. The doc- 
tor went in again, and the enemy relapsed as usual into total in- 
difference, so that Paul, without exactly knowing how, soon 
found himself the only one left in jail, "unnoticed and appar- 
ently forgotten. 

He could not see anything through the darkness, but he 
heard the voices of the boys disputing at the other side of the 
playground; he looked round; at his right was the indistinct 
form of a large laurel bush, behind that he knew was the play- 
ground gate. Could it be that his chance had come at last? 

He slipped behind the laurel and waited, holding his breath; 
the dispute still went on; no one seemed to have noticed him, 
prol)ably the darkness prevented all chance of that; he went on 
tip-toe to the gate — it was not locked. 

He opened it very carefully a little way; it was forbearing 
enough not to creak, and the next moment he was outside, free 
to go where he would! 

Escape, after all, was simple enough when he came to try it; 


172 


VICE VERSA. 


he could hardly believe at first that he really was free at last; 
free with money enough in his pocket to take him home, with 
the friendly darkness to cover his retreat; free to go back and 
confront Dick on his own ground, and, by force or fraud, get 
the Garuda stone into his own hands once more. 

As yet he never doubted that it would be easy enough to con- 
vince his household, if necessary, of the truth of his story, and 
enlist them one and all on his side; all that he required, he 
thought, was caution; he must reach the house unobserved, and 
wait and watch, and the deuce would be in it if the stone were 
not safe in his pocket again before twelve hours had gone by. 

All this time he was still within a hundred yards or so of the 
playground wall; he must decide upon some particular route, 
some definite method of ordering his flight; to stay where he 
w'as any longer would clearly be unwise, yet, where should he 
go first? 

If he went to the station at once, how could he tell that he 
should be lucky enough to catch a train without having to wait 
long for it, and unless he did that, he would almost certainly 
be sought for first on the station platform, and miglit be caught 
before a train was due. 

At last, with an astuteness he had not suspected himself of 
possessing, which was probably the result of the harrowing ex- 
periences he had lately undergone, he hit upon a plan of action. 
“ I’ll go to a shop,” he thought, ‘‘and change this sovereign, 
and ask to look at a time-table — then, if I find I can catch a 
train at once. I’ll run for it; if one is not due for some time, I 
can hang about near the station till it comes in.” 

With this intention he walked on toward the town till he came 
to a small terrace of shops, when he went into the first, which 
was a stationer’s and toy dealer’s, w-ith a stock in trade of cheap 
wooden toys and incomprehensible games, drawing slates, penny 
packets of stationery, and cards of pen and pencil holders, and 
a particularly stuffy atmosphere; the proprietor, a short man 
with a fat face with a rich glaze all over it, and a fringe of rag- 
ged brown whisker meeting under his chin, was sitting behind 
the counter posting up his ledger. 

Paul looked round the shop in search of something to pur- 
chase, and at last said, more nervously than he expected to do: 
“ I want a pencil-case — one which screws up and down.” He 
thought a pencil-case would be an innocent, unsuspicious thing 
to ask for. The man set rows of cards containing pencil-cases 
of ev(‘rv imaginable shape on the counter before him, and, when 
Mr. Bultitude. had chosen one, the stationer asked if there would 
be anything else, and if he might send it for him. “You’re 
one of Dr. Grimstone’s young gentlemen up at Crichton House, 
aren’t you, sir?” he added. 


VICE VERSA. 


173 


A guilty dread of discovery made Paul anxious to deny this 
at once. “No,” he said; “oh, no; no connection with the 
place. Ah, could you allow me to look at a time-table?” 

“ Certainly, sir; expectin’ some one to-night, or to-morrow 
p’raps. Let me see,” he said, consulting a table which hung 
behind him. “ There’s a train from Pancras comes in half an 
hour from now, 6.05 that is; there’s another due at 8.15, and 
one at 9.30. Then from Liverpool Street they run” 

“Thank you,” said Mr, Bultitude, “but — but I want the up- 
trains.” 

“Ah,” said the man, with a rather peculiar intonation, “I 
thought maybe you par or your mar was cornin’ down. Ain’t 
Dr. Grimstone got the times the trains go?” 

“Yes,” said Paul, desperately, without very well knowing 
what he said, “yes, he has, but, ah, not for this month; he — he 
sent me to inquire.” 

“Did he though?” said the stationer. “I thought you 
wasn’t one of his young gentlemen?” 

Mr. Bultitude saw what a fearful trap he had fallen into, and 
stood speechless. 

“Go along with you!” said the little stationer at last, with a 
not unkindly grin. “Lor’ bless you, I knew your face the min- 
nit you come in. To go and tell me such a brazen story like 
that! You’re a young pickle, you are!” 

Mr. Bultitude began to shuffle feebly toward the door. 
“Pickle, eh?” he protested, in great discomposure. “No, no. 
Heaven knows I’m no pickle. It’s of no consequence about 
those trains. Don’t trouble. Good evening to you.” 

“ Stop,” said the man; “ don’t be in such a hurry now. You 
tell me what you want to know straightforward, and I don’t 
mean to say as I won’t help you so far as I can. Don’t be afraid 
of my telling no tales. I’ve bin a schooboy myself in my time, 
bless your ’art. I shouldn’t wonder now if I couldn’t make a 
pretty good guess without telling at what you’re after. You’ve 
bin a catchin’ of it hot, and you want to make a clean bolt of it. 
I ain’t very far off now, am I?” 

“No,” said Paul; for something in the man’s manner inspired 
confidence. “I do want to make a bolt of it. I’ve been most 
abominably treated.” 

“ Well, look here, I ain’t got no right to interfere; and, if 
you’re caught, I look to you not to bring my name in. I don’t 
want to get into trouble up at Crichton House and lose good 
customers, you see. But I like the looks of you, and you’ve al- 
ways dealt ’ere pretty regular. I don’t mind if I give you a lift. 
Just see here. You want to get off to London, don’t you? What 
for is your buvsiness, not mine. Well, there’s a train, express, 
stops at only one station on the way, in at 5:50. It’s twenty 


174 


VICE VERSA. 


minnits to six now. If you take that road just oppersite, it’ll 
bring you out at the end of the Station Road; you can do it easy 
in ten minnits and have time to spare. So cut away, and good 
luck to you! ’ 

‘^I’m vastly obliged to you,” said Paul, and he meant it. It 
was a new experience to find any one ofi*ering him assistance. 
He left the close little shop, crossed the road, and started ofi* in 
the direction indicated to him at a brisk trot. 

His steps rang out cheerfully on the path iron-bound with 
frost. He was almost happy again under the exhilarating glow 
of unusual exercise and the excitement of escape and regained 
freedom. 

He ran on, past a series of villa residences inclosed in varnished 
palings and adorned with that mediaeval abundance of turrets, 
balconies, and cheap stained glass, which is accepted nowa- 
days as a guarantee of the tenant’s culture, and a satisfactory 
substitute for effective drainage. After the villas came a 
church, and a few yards farther on the road turned with a 
sharp curve into the main thoroughfare leading to the sta- 
tion. 

He was so near it that he could hear the shrill engine 
whistles, and the banging of trucks on the railway sidings 
echoed sharply from the neighboring houses. He was saved, 
in sight of haven at last! 

Pull of delight at the thought, he put on a still greater 
pace, and, turning the corner, ran into a little party of three, 
which was coming in the opposite direction. 

Fate’s vein of irony was by no means worked out yet. As he 
was recovering from the collision, and preparing to offer or ac- 
cept an apology, as the case might be, he discovered to his hor- 
ror that he had fallen among no strangers. 

The three were his old acquaintances, Coker, Coggs, and the 
virtuous Chawner— of whom he had fondly hoped he had seen 
the last for ever! 

The moral and physical shock of such an encounter took all 
Mr. Bnltitude’s remaining breath away. He stood panting un- 
der the sickly rays of a street-lamp, the very incarnation of help- 
less, hopeless dismay. 

“Hallo!” said Coker, “it’s young Bultitude!” 

“What do you mean by cannoning into a fellow like this?” 
said Coggs. “ What ere yon up to out here, eh?” 

“If it comes to that,” said Paul, casting about for some ex- 
planation of his appearance, “ what are you up to here?” 

“Why,” said Chawner, “if you want to know, Dick, we’ve 
been to fet<5h the ‘ St. James’ Gazette ’ for the doctor. He said 
I might go if I liked, and I asked for Coker and Coggs to come 


VICE VERSA. 


175 


too, because there was something I wanted to tell them, very 
important, and I have told them, haven’t I, Corny?” 

Coggs growled sulkily; Coker gave a tragic groan, and said: 

“ I don’t care Avhen you tell, Chawner. Do it to-night, if you 
like. Let’s talk about something else. Bultitude hasn’t told 
us yet how he came out here after us?” 

His last words suggested a pretext to Paul, of which he has- 
tened to make use! “Oh,” he said, “I? I ckme out here,, 
after yon, to say that Dr. Grimstone will not require the ‘ St. 
James’ Gazette.’ He wants the ‘Globe,’ and, ah, the ‘Echo,’ 
instead.” ^ 

It did not sound a very probable combination; but Paul used 
the first names that occurred to him, and, as it happened, 
aroused no suspicions, for the boys read no newspapers. 

“Well, we’ve got the other now,” said Coker. “We shall 
have to go back and get the fellow at the bookstall to change it, 

I suppose. Come on, you fellows!” 

This was at least a move in the right direction; for the three 
began at once to retrace their steps. But, unfortunately, all 
tliese explanations had taken time, and, before they had gone 
many yards, Mr. Bultitude was horrified to hear the station 
bell ring loudly, and immediately after a cloud of white steam 
rose above the station roof as the London train clanked cum- 
brously in, and was brought to with a prolonged screeching of 
brakes. 

The others were walking very slowly. At the present pace it 
would be almost impossible to reach the train in time. He 
looked round at them anxiously. “ H-hadn’t we better run, 
don’t you think?” he asked. 

“ Run!” said Coker, scornfully. “What for? I’m not going 
to run. You can, if you like.” 

“Why, ah, really,” said Paul, briskly, very grateful for the 
permission; “ do you know, I think I will!” 

And run he did, with all his might, rushing headlong through 
the gates, threading his way between the omnibuses and under 
the Roman noses of the mild fly-horses in the inclosure, until 
at length he found himself inside the little booking-office. 

He was not too late; the train was still at the platform, the 
engine getting up steam with a dull roar. But he dared not 
risk detection by traveling without a ticket. There was time 
for that, too. No one was at the pigeon-hole but one old lady. 
But, unhappily, the old lady considered taking a ticket as a 
solemn rite to be performed with all due caution and delibera- 
tion. She had already catechised the clerk upon the number 
of stoppages during her proposed journey, and exacted earnest 
assurances from him that she would not be called upon to 
change anywhere in the course of it; and as Paul came up she 


176 


VICE VERSA. 


was laying ont the purchase-money for her ticket upon the ledge 
and counting it, which, the fare being high and the coins mostly 
haif-peuce, seemed likely to take some time. 

“One moment, ma’am, if you please,” cried Mr. Bultitude, 
panting and desperate. “I’m pressed for time.” 

“Now you’ve gone and put me out, little boy,” said the old 
lady, fussily. »“I shall have to begin all over again. Young 
man, will you take and count the other end and see if it adds up 
right? There’s a half-penny wrong somewhere; I know there 
is?” 

“Now, then,” shouted the guard from the platform. “Any 
more going on?” 

“I’m going on!” said Paul. “Wait for me. First single to 
St. Pancras, quick!” 

“Drat the boy!” said the old lady, angrily. “Do you think 
the world’s to give way for you! Such irapidence! Mind your 
manners, little boy, can’t you? You’ve made me drop a three- 
penny-bit with your scrouging!” 

“First single, five shillings,” said the clerk, jerking out the 
precious ticket. 

“ Eight!” cried the guard at the same instant. “ Stand back 
there, will you?” 

Paul dashed toward the door of the booking-office which led 
to the platform; but just as he reached it a gate slammed in his 
face with a sharp click. Through the bars of it he saw, with 
hot eyes, the tall, heavy carriages which had shelter and safety 
in them jolt heavily past, till even the red lamp in the last van 
was quenched in the darkness. 

That miserable old woman had shattered his hopes at the very 
moment of their fulfillment. It was fate again: 

As he stood, fiercely gripping the bars of the gate, he heard 
Coggs’ hateful voice again. 

“Hallo! so you haven’t got the * Globe ’ and the other thing 
after all, then; they’ve shut you out?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Bultitude, in a hollow voice; “they’ve shut 
me out!” 


VICE VERSA. 


177 


CHAPTER XVI. 

HAKD PRESSED. 

“ Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles 
How he outruns the wind, and with what care 
' He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles; 

The many musets through the which he goes 
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.” 

As soon as the gate was opened Paul went through mechan- 
ically with the others on to the platform, and waited at the 
bookstall while they changed the paper. He knew well enough 
that what had seemed at the time a stroke of transcendental cun- 
ning would now only land him in fresh difficulties, if, indeed, it 
did not lead to the detection of his scheme. But he dared not 
interfere and prevent them from making the unlucky exchange. 
Something seemed to tie his tongue, and in sullen, leaden apa- 
thy he resigned himself to whatever might be in store for him. 

They passed out again by the booking-office. There was the 
old lady still by the pigeon-hole, trying to persuade the much- 
enduring clerk to restore a lucky sixpence she liad given him by 
mistake, and was quite unable to describe. Mr. Bultitude would 
have given much just then to go up and shake her into hysterics, 
or curse her bitterly for the mischief she had done; but he re- 
frained, either from an innate chivalry, or from a feeling that 
such an outburst would be ill-judged. 

So, silent and miserable, with slow step and hanging head, he 
set out with his jailers to render himself up once more at his 
house of bondage— a sort of involuntary Regulus, without the 
oath. 

“Dickie, you were very anxious to run just now,” observed 
Chawner, after they had gone some distance on their homeward 
way. 

“ We were late for tea — late for tea,” explained Paul, hastily. 

“If you think the tea worth racing like that for, I don’t,” 
said Coggs, viciously; “its muck.” 

“You don’t catch me racing, except for something worth hav- 
ing,” said Coker. 

One more flash of distinct inspiration came to Paul’s aid in 
the very depths of his gloom. It was, in fact, a hazy recollec- 
tion from English history of the ruse by which Edward I, when 
a prince, contrived to escape from his captors at Dover Castle. 

“Why — why,” he said, excitedly, “would you race if you 
had something worth racing for, hey? would you, now?” 


1.78 


VICE VERSA 


“Try ns!” said Coker, emphatically. 

“What do you call ‘something’ ?” inquired Chawner, suspi- 
ciously. 

“Well,” said Mr. Bultitude, “what do you say to ashilling?” 

“You haven’t got a shilling,” objected Coggs. 

“ Here’s a shilling, see,” said Paul^ producing one. “Now, 
then, I’ll give this to any boy I see get into tea first!” 

Bultitude thinks he can run,” said Coker, with an amiable 
unbelief in any disinterestedness. “He means to get in first, 
and keep the shilling himself, I know.” 

“I’ll back myself to run him any day,” put in Coggs. 

“ So will I,” added Chawner. 

“Well, is it agreed?” Paul asked, anxiously, “Will you 
try?” 

“ All right,” said Chawner. “ You must give us a start to the 
next lamp-post, though. You stay here, and when we’re ready, 
we’ll say ‘off’!” 

They drew a line on the path with their feet to mark Paul’s 
starting point, and went on to the next lamp. After a moment 
or two of anxious waiting he heard Coggs shout, all in one 
breath, “ One-two-three-off!” and the sound of scampering feet 
followed immediately. 

It was a most exciting and hotly contested race. Paul saw 
them for one brief moment in the lamplight. He saw Chawner 
scudding down the path like some great camel, and Coker squar- 
ing his arms and working them as if they were wings. Coggs 
seemed to be last. 

He ran a little way himself just to encourage them, but, as 
the sound of their feet grew fainter and fainter, he felt that 
his last desperate ruse had taken effect, and, with a chuckle 
at his own cleverness, turned round and ran his fastest in the 
opposite direction! He felt a little or no interest in the result 
of the race. 

Once more he entered the booking-office, and, kneeling on a 
chair, consulted the time-board that hung on the wall over the 
sheaf of texts and the missionary box. 

The next train was not until 7 :25. A whole hour and twenty- 
five minutes to wait! What was he to do? Where was he to 
pass the weary time till then? If he lingered on the platform 
he would assuredly be recaptured. His absence could not re- 
main long undiscovered; and the station would be the first place 
they would search for him. 

And yet he dared not wander away from the neighborhood of 
the station. If he kept to the shops and lighted thoroughfares 
he might be recognized or traced. If, on the other hand, he 
went out farther into the country (which was utterly un- 
known to him) he had no watch, and it would be only too easy 


VICE VERSA. 179 

to lose his way, or miscalculate time and distance in the dark- 
ness. 

To miss the next train would be absolutely fatal. 

He walked out upon the platform, and on past the refresh- 
ment and waiting-rooms, past the weighing machine, the 
stacked trucks and the lamp-room, meeting and seen by none; 
even the boy at the bookstall was busy with bread and butter 
and a mug of tea in a dark corner, and never noticed him. 

He went on to the end of the platform, where the planks sloped 
gently down to a wilderness of sheds, coaling stages, and sidings; 
he could just make out the bulky forms of some tarpaulined 
cattle-vans and open coal-trucks standing on the lines of metals 
which gleamed in the scanty gaslights. 

It struck him that one of these vans or trucks would serve his 
purpose admirably, if he could only get into it, and very 
cautiously he picked his way over the clogging ballast and rails, 
till he came to a low, narrow strip of platform between two 
sidings. 

He mounted it, and went bn till he came to the line of trucks 
and vans drawn up alongside; the vans seemed all locked, but 
at the end he found an empty coal-wagon in which he thought 
he could manage to conceal himself and escape pursuit till the 
longed-for 7:25 train should arrive to relieve him. 

He stepped in and laid down in one corner of it, listening 
anxiously for any sound of search, but, hearing nothing more 
than the*^dismal dirge of the telegraph-wires overhead, he soon 
grew cold and stiff, for his enforced attitude was far from com- 
fortable, and there was more coal-dust in his chosen retreat than 
he could have wished. Still it was secluded enough; it was not 
likely that it would occur to any one to look for him there. 
Ten days ago Mr. Paul Bultitude would have found it hard to 
conceive himself lying down in a hard and grimy coal-truck to 
escape his son’s schoolmaster, but since then he had gone through 
too much than was unprecedented and abnormal to see much 
incongruity in his situation; it was all too hideously real to be a 
nightmare. 

But even here he was not allowed to remain undisturbed; 
after about half an hour, when he was beginning to feel almost 
secure, there came a sharp twanging of wires beneath, and two 
short strokes of a bell in the signal-box hard by. 

He heard some one from the platform, probably the station- 
master, shout: “ Look alive, there, Ing, Pickstones, some of 
you. There’s those three trucks on the A siding to go on to 
Slopsbury by the 6:30 luggage; she’ll be in in another five min- 
utes.” 

There were steps as if some persons were coming out of a 


180 


VICR VERSA. 


cabin opposite; they came nearer and nearer. “ These three, 
ain’t it, Tommy?” said a gruff voice close to Paul’s ear. 

“That’s it, mate,” said another, evidently Tommy’s; “get 
’em along up to the points there. Can’t have the 6.30 standing 
about on this ’ere line all night ’cos of the Limited. Now, then, 
altogether, shove! they’ve got the old ’orse on at the other 
end.” 

And, to Paul’s alarm, he felt the truck in which he was begin 
to move ponderously on the greasy metals, and strike the next 
with its buffers with a jarring shock and a jangling of coupling 
chains. 

He could not stand this; unless he revealed himself at once, 
or managed to get out of this delusive wagon, the six-whatever- 
it-was train would be up and carry him off to Slopsbury, a hun- 
dred miles or so farther from home; they would have time to 
warn Hick — he would be expected — ambushes lain for him, and 
his one chance would be gone for ever! 

There was a whistle far away on the down line, and that hum- 
ming vibration which announces an approaching train; not a 
moment to lose — he was afraid to attempt a leap from the mov- 
ing wagons, and resolved to risk all and show himself. 

With this intention he got upon his knees, and, putting his 
head above the dirty bulwark, looked over and said: “ Tommy, 
I say, Tommy!” 

A porter, who had been laboriously employed below, looked 
up with a white and scared face, and staggered back several 
feet. Mr. Bultitude, in a sudden panic, ducked again. 

“Bill!” Paul heard the porter say, hoarsely, “111 take my 
Bible oath I’ve never touched a drop this week, not to speak of 
— but I’ve got ’em again, Bill, I’ve got ’em again!” 

“ Gk>t what agin?” growled Bill. “ What’s the matter now?” 

“ It’s the jumps. Bill,” gasped the other, “ the ’errors — they’ve 
got me, and no mistake. As I’m a livin’ man, as I was a shovin’ 
of that jthere truck I saw a imp — a gashly imp,. Bill, stick its 
hiigly ’ed over the side and say, ‘ Tommy,’ it ses, jest like that — 
it ses, ‘ Tommy, I wants you!’ I dursn’t go near it, Bill. I’ll get 
leave, and go ’ome and lay up — it glared at me so ’orrid. Bill, 
and grinned — ugh! I’ll take the pledge after this ’ere, I will — 
I’ll go to chapel Sundays reg’lar!” 

“Let’s see if there ain’t something there first,” said the prac- 
tical Bill. “Easy with the oss up there. Now then,” here he 
stepped on the box of the wheel and looked in. “Shin out of 
this, whatever -y ’are, we don’t con track to carry no imps on this 
line — well, if ever I — Tommy, old man, it‘s all right, y ’ain’t got 
’em this time — ’ere’s yer imp!” 

And, reaching over, he hauled out the wretched Paul by thd 


VICE VERSA. 


181 


scruff of his neck in a state of utter collapse, and deposited him 
on the ground before him. 

“ That ain’t your private kerridge, yer know, that ain’t; there 
wasn’t no bed up there for you, that I know on. You ain’t arter 
no good, now; you’se a wagabone! that’s about your size, I can 
see; what d’yer mean by it, eh?” 

“ Shet yer ’ed. Bill, will yer,” said Tommy, whose relief 
probably softened his temper; “ this here’s a young gent.” 

“Young gent, or no young gent,” replied Bill, sententiously, 
“he’s no call to go ’idin’ in our waggins and givin’ ’ard-workin’ 
men a turn. Old ’im tight. Tommy — here’s the luggage down 
on us.” 

Tommy held him fast with a grip of iron, while the other 
porters coupled the trucks, and the luggage train lumbered- 
away with its load. 

After this the men slouched up and stood round their captive, 
staring at him curiously. 

“Look here, my men,” said Paul, “I’ve run away from 
school; I want to go on to town by the next train, and I took 
the liberty of hiding in the truck, because the schoolmaster will 
be up here very soon to look for me — you understand?” 

“I understand,” said Bill, “ and a nice young party you are.” 

“I — I don’t want to be caught,” said Paul. 

“ Naterally,’’ assented Tommy, sympathetically. 

“Well, can’t you hide me somewhere where he won’t see me? 
Come, you can do that?” 

“What do you say. Bill?” asked Tommy. 

“ What’ll the guv’nor say?” said Bill, dubiously. 

“I’ve got a little money,” urged Paul. “ I’ll make it worth 
your while.” 

“Why didn’t you say that afore?” said Bill; “the guv’nor 
needn’t know.” 

“Here’s half a sovereign between you,” said Paul, holding 
it out. 

“That’s something like a imp,” said Tommy, warmly; “if 
all the bogeys acted as ’andsome as this ’ere, I don’t care how 
often they shows theirselves. We’ll have a supper on this, 
mates, and drink young Delirium Trimminses’ jolly good ’ealtli. 
You come along o’ me, young shaver; I’ll stow you away right 
enough, and let you out when your train comes in.” 

He led Paul on to the platform again and opened a sort of 
cupboard or closet. “That’s where we keeps the brooms and 
lamp-rags, and them,” he said; “it ain’t what you may call 
tidy, but if I lock you in no one won’t trouble you.” 

It was perfectly dark, and the rags smelt unpleasantly, but 
Mr. Bultitude was very glad of this second ark of refuge, even 
though he did bruise his legs over the broom-handles; he was 


182 


VICE VERSA. 


gladder still by and by, when he heard a rapid, heavy footfall 
outside, and a voice he knew only too well, saying: “I want to 
see the station-master. Ha, there he is. Good-evening, station- 
master, you know me — Dr. Grimstone, of Crichton House. I 
want you to assist me in a very unpleasant affair — the fact is, 
one of my pupils has had the folly and wickedness to run 
away.” 

“You don’t say so!” said the station-master. 

“It’s only too true, I’m sorry to say; he seemed happy and 
contented enough, too; it’e a black, ungrateful business. But I 
must catch him, you know; he must be about here somewhere, 
I feel sure. You don’t happen to have noticed a boy who 
looked as if he belonged to me? They can’t tell me at the 
booking-office.” 

How glad Paul was now he had made no inquiries of the sta- 
tion-master. 

“No,” said the latter, “I can’t say I have, sir, but some of 
my men may have come across him. I’ll inquire — here, Ing, I 
want you; this gentleman has lost one of his boys; have you 
seen him?” 

‘What sort of a young gentleman was he to look at?” Paul 
heard Tommy’s voice ask. 

“A bright, intelligent- looking boy,” said the doctor; “me- 
dium height, about thirteen, with aul)urn hair.” 

“No, I ain’t seen no intelligent boys with median ’eight,” 
said Tommy, slowly, “not, leastways, to speak to positive. 
What might he 'ave on, now, besides his ’oburn ’air?” 

“Black cloth jacket, with a wide collar,” w^as the answer; 
“gray trousers, and a cloth cap with a leather peak.” 

“ Oh,” said Tommy, “then I see ’im.” 

“When — where?” 

“ ’Bout arf an ’our since.” 

“Do you know where he is now?” 

“Well,” said Tommy, to Paul’s intense horror, for he was 
listening, quaking, to every word of this conversation, which 
w'as held just outside his cupboard door. “ I dessay I could 
give a guess if I give my mind to it.” 

“Out with it, Ing, now, if you know; no tricks,” said the sta- 
tion-master. who had apparently just turned to go away. “Ex- 
cuse me, sir, but I’ve some things in there to see after,” 

When he had gone, the doctor said, rather heatedly: “Come, 
you’re keeping something from me; I wdll have it out of you. 
If I find you have deceived me. I’ll w'rite to the manager and 
get you "sent about your business; you’d better tell me the 
truth. ” 

“You see,” said Tommy, very slowly and reluctantly, “that 
young gent o’ yourn was a gent.” 


VICE VERSA. 


183 


“I tried my very best to render him so,” said the doctor, 
stiffly; here is the result — how did you discover he was one, 
pray?” 

“ ’Cos he acted like a gent,” said Tommy; “ he took and give 
me a ’arf-suffering. ” 

“Well, I’ll give you another,” said the doctor, “if you can 
tell me where he is.” 

“Thankee, sir, don’t you be afraid; you’re a gent right 
enough, too, though you do ’appen to be a school-master.” 

“Where is the unhappy boy?” interrupted the doctor. 

“ Seems as if I was a roundin’ on ’im, like, don’t it a’most, 
sir?” said Tommy, with too evident symptoms of yielding in his 
voice. 

Paul shook so in his terror that he knocked down a broom or 
two with a clatter, which froze his blood. 

“Not at all,” said the doctor, “not at all, my good fellow; 
you’re — ahem — advancing the cause of moral order.” 

“ Oh, ah!” said Tommy, obviously open to conviction. “Well, 
if I’m a doin’ all that, I can’t go fur wrong, can I? And, arter 
all, we mayn’t like schools or school-masters, not over above, 
but we can’t get on without ’em, I s’pose. But look ye here, 
sir — if I goes and tells you where you can get hold of this hero 
boy, you won’t go and wallop him now, will ye?” 

“ I can make no bargains,” said the doctor; “I shall act on 
my own discretion.” 

“That’s it,” said Tommy, unaccountably relieved; “spoke 
like a merciful Christian gen’leman. If you don’t go actin’ on 
nothin more but your discretion, you can’t hurt him much, I 
take it. Well then, since you’ve spoke out fair, I don’t mind 
putting you on his track, like. ” 

If the door of the cupboard had not been locked, Paul would 
undoubtedly have burst out and yielded himself up, to escape 
the humiliation of being sold like this by a mercenary and 
treacherous porter. As it was, he had to wait till the inevitable 
words should be spoken. 

“Well, you see,” went on Tommy, very slowly, as if strug- 
gling with the remnants of a conscience, “it was like this here: 
He comes up to me and says — your young gen’leman, I mean — 
says he, ‘ Porter, I wants to ’ide; I’ve run away.’ And 1 says to 
him, says I, ‘ It’s no use your ’anging about ’ere,’ I says, ‘ cause 
if you do, your guv’nor (meanin’ no offense to you, sir) ’ll be 
cornin’ up and ketchin’ of you on the ’op.’ ‘ Right you are, por- 
ter,’ says he to me; ‘what do you advise?’ he says. ‘Well,’ I 
says, ‘ I don’ know as I’m right in givin’ you no advice at all, 
havin’ run away from them as has the care on you,’ I says, ‘ but 
if I was a young gen’leman as didn’t want to be ketched, I should 
just walk on to Dufferton; it ain’t on’y three mile or so, and 


184 


VICE VERSA. 


you’ll ’ave time for to do it before tlie up-train comes along 
there.’ ‘Thankee, porter,’ he says, ‘I’ll do that,’ and away he 
bolts, and, for anything I know, he’s ’arf way there by this 
time.” 

“A fly!” shouted the doctor, excitedly, when Tommy had 
come to the end of his veracious account. “ I’ll catch the young 
rascal now. Who has a good horse? Davis, I’ll take you. 
Five shillings if you reach Dufferton before the up-train. Take 
the ” 

The rest was lost in the banging of the fly-door and the rumble 
of wheels; the terrible man had been got safely off on a wrong 
scent, and Paul fell back among the lumber in his closet faint 
with the susj^ense and relief. 

Presently he heard Tommy’s chuckling whisper through the 
key-hole: 

“Are you all right in there, sir? He’s safe enough now orf 
on a pretty dance. You didn’t think 1 was goin’ to tell on ye, 
did ye now? I ain’t quite sech a cur as that comes to, partic- 
ular when a young gent saves me from the ’errors, and gives me 
a ’arf-suffering. I’ll see you through, you make yourself easy 
about that.” 

Half an hour went slowly by for Mr. Bultitude in his dark- 
ness and solitude. The platform gradualy filled, as he could 
tell by the tread of feet, the voices, and the scent of cigars, 
and at last, welcome sound, he heard the station bell ringing 
for the up train. 

It ran in the next minute, shaking the cupboard in which 
Paul crouched, till the brushes rattled. There was the usual 
blind hurry and confusion outside as it stopped. Paul waited 
impatiently inside. The time passed, and still no one came to 
let him out. He began to grow alarmed. Could Tommy have 
forgotten him? Had he been sent away by some evil chance at 
the critical moment? Two or three times his excited fancy 
heard the fatal whistle sound for departure. Would he be left 
behind after all? 

But the next instant the door was noiselessly unlocked. 

“ Couldn’t do it afore,” said honest Tommy. “Our guv’ngr 
would have seen me. Now’s your time. Here’s a empty first- 
class coach I’ve kept for ye. In with you now.” 

He hoisted Paul up the high foot-board to an empty com- 
partment, and shut the door, leaving him to sink down on the 
■ luxurious cushions in speechless and measureless content. But 
Tommy had hardly done so before he reappeared and looked in. 

“I say,” he suggested, “if I was you, I’d get under the 
seat before you gets to Dufferton; otherways your guv’nor’ll be 
si^ottin’ you. I’ll lock you in!” 

“I’ll get under now; some one might see me here,” said 


VICE VEESA. 


185 


Paul; and, too anxious for safety to thank his preserver, he 
crawled under the low, blue-cushioned seat, which left just 
room enough for him to lie there in a very cramped and uncom- 
fortable position. Still he need not stay there after the train 
had once started, except for five minutes or so at Dufferton. 

Unfortunately, he had not been long under the seat before he 
heard two loud, imperious voices just outside the carriage-door. 

“Porter! guard! hi, somebody! open this door, will you? it’s 
locked.” 

“This way, sir,” he heard Tommy’s voice say outside. 
“Plenty of room higher up.” 

“I don’t want to go higher up. I’ll go here. Just open it at 
once, I tell you.” 

The door was opened reluctantly, and two middle-aged men 
came in. 

“Always take the middle carriage of a train,” said the first. 
“ Safest in any accident, y’know. Never heard of a middle car- 
riage of a train getting smashed up, to speak of.” 

The other sat heavily down just over Paul, with a comfortable 
grunt, and the train started, Paul feeling naturally annoyed by 
this intrusion, as it compelled him to remain in seclusion for 
the whole of the journey. 

“ Still,” he thought, “it is lucky that I had time to get un- 
der here before they came in; it would have seemed odd if I 
had done it afterward.” And he resigned himself to listen to 
the conversation which followed. 

“What was it we were talking about just now?” began the 
first. “Let me see. Ah! I remember. Yes; it was a very 
painful thing — very, indeed, I assure you.” 

There is a certain peculiar and uncomfortable suspicion that 
attacks most of us at times, which cannot fairly be set down 
wholly to self-consciousness or an exaggerated idea of our own 
importance. I mean the suspicion that a partly heard conver- 
sation must have ourselves for its subject. As often as not, of 
course, it proves utterly unfounded, but once in a way, like 
most presentiments, it finds itself unpleasantly fulfilled. 

Mr. Bultitude, though he failed to recognize either of the 
voices, was somehow persuaded that the conversation had some- 
thing to do with himself, and listened with eager attention. 

“Yes,” the speaker continued; “he was never, according to 
what I hear, a man of an extraordinary capacity, but he was 
always spoken of as a man of standing in the city, doing a safe 
business, not a risky one, and so on, you know. So, of course, 
his manner, when I called, shocked me all the more.” 

“ Ah!” said the other. “ Was he violent or insulting then?” 

“ No, no! I can only describe his conduct as eccentric — what 
one might call reprehensibly eccentric and extravagant. I didn’t 


186 


7 ICE VEESA, 


call exactly in tlie way of business, but about a poor young fel-* 
low in my house, who is, I fear, rather far gone in consumption, 
and, knowing he was a Life Governor, y’know, I thought he 
might give me a letter for the hospital. Well, when I got up 
to Mincing Lane ” 

Paul started. It was as he had feared then; they were speak- 
ing of himt 

“ When I got there, I sent in my card with a message that, if 
he was engaged or anything, I would take the liberty of calling 
at his private house, and so on. But they said he would see 
me. The clerk who showed me in said: ‘You’ll find him a good 
deal changed, if you knew him, sir. We’re very uneasy about 
him here,’ which prepared me for something out of the com- 
mon. Well, I went into a sort of inner roopj, and there he was, 
in his shirt-sleeves, busy over some abomination he was cooking 
at the stove, with the office-boy helping him I I never was so 
taken aback in my life. I saidf something about calling another 
time, but Bultitude ” 

Paul groaned. The blow had fallen. Well, it was better to 
be prepared and know the worst. 

“ Bultitude says, just like a great awkward schoolboy, y’know, 
‘What’s your name? How d ’3^0 do? Have some hardbake, it’s 
just done?’ Fancy finding a man in his position cooking coffee 
in the middle of the day, and offering it to a perfect strangerr” 

“ Softening of the brain— must be,” said the other. 

“I fear so. Well, he asked what I wanted, and I told him, 
and he actually said he never did any business now, except sign 
his name where his clerks told him. He’d worked hard all his 
life, he said, and was tired of it. Business w'as, I understood 
him to say, ‘all rot!’ 

“ Then he wouldn’t promise me votes, or give me a letter or 
anything, without consulting his head clerk; beseemed to know 
nothing about it himself, and, when that was over, he asked me 
a quantity of frivolous questions which appeared to have a sort 
of catch in them, as far as I could gather, and he was exceed- 
ingly angry when I wouldn’t humor him.” 

“What kind of questions?” 

“ Well, really, I hardly know. I believe he wanted to know 
whether I had rather be a bigger fool than I looked, or look a 
bigger fool than I w^as, and he pressed me quite earnestly to re- 
peat some foolishness after’ him about ‘ being a gold key, ’ when 
he said ‘ he was a gold lock.’ I was very glad to get away from 
him, it was so distressing.” 

“They tell me he has begun to speculate, too, lately,” said 
the other. “ You see his name about in some very queer things. 
It’s a very pitiful affair altogether.” 

Paul writhed under his seat with shame. How could he, even 


VICE VERSA. 


187 


if he succeeded in ousting Dick and getting back his old self — 
how could he ever hold up his head again after this ? 

Why, Dick must be mad. Even a schoolboy would have had 
more caution when so much depended on it. But none would 
suspect the real cause of the change. These horrible tales were 
no doubt being circulated everywhere. 

The conversation fell back into a less personal channel again 
after this; they talked of “risks,” of some one who had only 
been “ writing” a year, and was doing seven thousand a week, 
of losses they had been “ on,” and of the uselessness of “writing 
five hundred on everything,” and while at this point the train , 
slackened and stopped — they had reached Dulferton. 

There was an opening of doors all along the train, and sounds 
as of some inquiry and answer at each. The voices became au- 
dible at length, and, as he had expected, Paul found that the 
doctor, not having discovered him on the platform, was making 
a systematic search of the train, evidently believing that he had 
managed to slip in somewhere unobserved. 

It was a horrible moment when the door of his compartment 
was flung open, and a stream of ice-cold air rushed under the 
blue cloth, which, fortunately for Paul, hung down almost to 
the floor. 

Some one held a lantern up outside, and by its rays Paul saw 
from behind the hanging the upper half of Dr. Grimstone ap- 
pear; very pale and polite, at the doorway. He remained there 
for some moments without speaking, carefully examining every 
corner of the compartment. 

The two men on the seats drew their wraps about them and 
shivered, until at length one said, rather testily : “ Get in, sir; 
kindly get in if your coming on, please. This draught is most 
unpleasant!” 

“ I do not propose to travel by this train, sir,” said the doc- 
tor; “ but, as a person intrusted with the care of youth, permit 
me to inquire whether you have seen (or, it may be, assisted 
to conceal) a small boy of an intelligent appearance ” 

“Why should we conceal small boys of intelligent appear- 
ance about us, pray?” demanded the man who had described 
his visit to Mincing Lane, “And may we ask you to shut 
that door, and make any communications you wish to make 
through the window, or else come in and sit down?” 

“That’s not an answer to my question, sir,” retorted the 
doctor. “I notice you carefully decline to say whether you 
have seen a boy. I consider your manner suspicious, sir, and 
I shall insist on searching this carriage through and through 
till I find that boy!” 

Mr. Bultitude rolled himself up close against the partition 
at these awful words. 


188 


VICE VERSA. 


“ Guard, guard!” shouted the first gentleman. “ Come here. 
Here’s a violent person who will search this carriage for some- 
thing he has lost. I won’t be inconvenienced in this way 
w’ithout any reason whatever! He says we’re hiding a boy in 
here!” 

“Guard!” said the doctor, quite as angrily, “I insist upon 
looking under these seats before you start the train. I’ve 
looked through every other carriage and he must be in here. 
Gentlemen, let me pass; I’ll get him if I have to travel in this 
compartment to town with you!” 

. “For peace and quietness’ sake, gentlemen,” said the guard, 
“let him look around just to ease his mind. Lend me your 
stick a minute, sir, please. I’ll turn him out if he’s anywhere 
about this compartment!” 

And with this he pulled Dr. Grimstone down from the foot- 
board and mounted it himself; after which he began to rummage 
about under the seats with the doctor’s heavy stick. 

Every lunge found out some tender part in Mr. Bultitude’s 
person, and caused him exquisite torture; but he clenched his 
teeth hard to prevent a sound, while he thought each fresh dig 
must betray his whereabouts. 

“There,” said the guard, at last, “there really ain’t no one 
there, sir, you see. I’ve felt everywhere, and— Hello, I cer- 
tainly did feel something just then, gentlemen!” he added, in 
an undertone, after a lunge which took all the breath out of 
Paul’s body. All was lost now ! 

“You touch that again with that confounded stick if you 
dare!” said one of the passengers. “That’s a parcel of mine. 
I won’t have you poking holes through it in that way. Don’t 
tell that lunatic behind you. He’ll be wanting it opened to see 
if his boy’s inside. Now, perhaps, you’ll let us alone.” 

“ Well, sir,” said the guard at last to the doctor, as he with- 
drew, “ he ain’t in there. There’s nothing under any of the 
seats. Your boy’ll be cornin’ on by the next train— most likely 
the 8:40. We’re all behind. Right!” 

“ Good-night, sir,” said the first passenger, as he leaned out 
of the window, to the baffled schoolmaster on the platform. 
“You’ve put us to all this inconvenience for nothing, and in the 
most offensive way, too. I hope you won’t find your boy till 
you’re in a better temper, for his sake.” 

“If I had you out on this platform, sir,” shouted the angry 
doctor, “I’d horsewhip you for that insult. I believe the boy’s 
there, and you know it. I ” 

But the train swept off, and, to Paul’s joy and thankfulness, 
soon left the doctor gesticulating and threatening, miles be- 
hind it. 

“What a violent fellow for a schoolmaster, eh?” said giie of 


VICE VERSA. 


189 


Paul’s companions, when they were fairly off again. “ I wasn’t 
going to have him turning the cushions inside out here; we 
shouldn’t have settled down again before we got in?” 

“No; and if the guard hasn’t, as it is, injured that Indian 
shawl in my parcel. I shall be — Why, bless my soul, that 
parcel’s not under the seat, after all! It’s up in the rack. Ire- 
member putting it there now. 

“ The guard must have fancied he felt something; and yet — 
Look here, Goldicutt; just feel under here with your foot. It 
certainly does seem as if something soft was — eh? 

Mr. Goldicutt accordingly explored Paul’s ribs with his boot 
for some moments, which was very painful. 

“Upon my word,” he said at last, “it really does seem very 
like it. It’s not hard enough for a bag or a hat-box. It yields 
distinctly when you kick it. Can you fetch it out with your 

umbrella, do you think? Shall we tell the guard at the next ? 

Lord! it’s coming out of its own accord. It’s a dog. No, my 
stars — it’s the boy, after all!” 

For Paul, alarmed at the suggestion about the guard, once 
more felt inclined to risk the worst and reveal himself. Be- 
grimed with coal, smeared with whitewash, and covered with 
dust and flue, he crawled slowly out and gazed imploringly up 
at his fellow -passengers. 

After the first shock of surprise they lay back in their seats 
and laughed till they cried. 

“Why, you young rascal!” they said, when they recovered 
breath, “ you don’t mean to say you’ve been under there the 
whole time?” 

“I have, indeed,” said Paul. “ I — I didn’t like to come out 
before.” 

“ And are you the boy all this fuss was about? Yes? And 
we kept the schoolmaster off without knowing it! Why this ia 
splendid, capital! You’re something like a boy, you little dog, 
you! This is the best joke I’ve heard for many a day!” 

“ I hope, ” said Paul, “ I haven’t inconvenienced you. I could 
not help it, really.” 

“Inconvenienced us? Gad, your schoolmaster came very 
near inconveniencing us and you too. But there, he won’t 
trouble any of us now. To think of our swearing by all our 
gods there was no boy in here, and vowing he shouldn’t come 
in, while you were lying down there under the seat all the time! 
Why, it’s lovely! The boy’s got pluck and manners too. Shake 
hands, young gentleman; you owe us no apologies. I haven’t 
had such a laugh for many a day.” 

“ Then you — you won’t give me up?” faltered poor Paul. 

“ Well,” said the one who was called Goldicutt, and who was 
a jovial old gentleman with a pink face and white whiskers, 


190 


VICE VERSA. 


“we’re not exactly going to take the trouble of getting out 
the next station, and bringing yon back to Dnfferton, just to 
oblige that hot-tempered master of yours; you know he hasn’t 
been so particularly civil as to deserve that.” 

“But if he were to telegraph, and get some one to stop me at 
St. Pancras,” said Paul, nervously. 

“ Ah, he might do that, to be sure — sharp boy this — well, as 
we’ve gone so far, I suppose we must go through with the busi- 
ness now and smuggle the young scamp past the detectives, eh, 
Travers?” 

The younger man addressed assented readily enough, for the 
doctor had b^een so unfortunate as to prejudice them both from 
the first by his unjustifiable suspicions, and it is to be feared 
they had no scruples in helping to outwit him. 

Then they noticed the pitiable state Mr. Bultitude was in, and 
he had to give them a fair account of his escape and subsequent 
adventures, at which even their sympathy could not restrain de- 
lighted shouts of laughter — though Paul himself saw little 
enough in it all to laugh at; they asked his name, which he 
thought more prudent, for various reasons, to give as “Jones,” 
and other details, which I am afraid he invented as he went on, 
and altogether they reached Kentish Town in a state of high 
satisfaction with themselves and their protege. 

At Kentish Town there was one more danger to be encountered, 
for with the ticket-collector there appeared one of the station 
inspectors. “ Beg pardon, gentlemen,” said the latter, peering 
curiously in, “but does that young gent in the corner happen 
to belong to either of you?” 

The white-whiskered gentlemen seemed a little flustered at 
this downright inquiry, but the other was more equal to the oc- 
casion. “Do you hear that, Joonny, my boy,” he said to Paul 
(whom they had managed during the journey to brush and 
scrape into something approaching respectability); “they want 
to know if you belong to me. I suppose you’ll allow a son to 
belong to his father to a certain extent, eh?” he asked the in- 
spector. 

The man apologized for what he conceived to be a mistake. 
“ We've orders to look out for a young gent about the size of 
yours, sir,” he explained; “no offense meant, I’m sure,” and he 
went away satisfied. 

A very few minutes more and the train rolled in to the ter- 
minus, under the same wide arch beneath which Paul had stood, 
helpless and bewildered, a week ago, 

“Now my advice to you, young man,” said Mr. Goldicutt, as 
he put Paul into a cab, and pressed half a sovereign into his 
unwilling hand, “is to go straight home to papa and tell him 
all about it. I daresay he won’t be very hard on you; here’s 


VICE VERSA. 


191 


my card; refer him to me if you like. Good-night, my boy, 
good-night, and good luck to you. Gad, the best joke I’ve had 
for yeajs!” 

And the cab rolled away, leaving them standing chuckling on 
the platform, and, as Paul found himself plunging once more 
into the welcome roar and rattle of London streets, he forgot 
the difficulties and dangers that might yet lie before him in the 
thought that at last he was beyond the frontier, and, for the first 
time since he had slipped through the playground-gate, he 
breathed freely. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A PERFIDIOUS ALLY. 

‘‘But homeward— home— what home? had he a home ?” 

His home — he walked; 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 

His heart foreshadowing all calamity. 

His eyes upon the stones, he reached his home.” 

Paul had been careful, while in the hearing of his friends, to 
give the cabman a fictitious address, but as soon as he reached 
the Euston Road he stopped the man and ordered him to put 
him down at the church near the south end of Westbourne Ter- 
race, for he dared not drive up openly to his own door. 

At last he found himself standing safely on the pavement, 
looking down the long line of yellow lamps of his own terrace, 
only a few hundred yards from home. 

But, though his purpose was now within easy reach, his spirits 
were far from high; his anxiety had returned with tenfold power; 
he felt no eagerness or exultation; on the contrary, the task he 
had set himself had never before seemed so hopeless, so insur- 
mountable. 

He stood for some time by the railing of the church, which 
was lighted up for evening service, listening blankly to the 
solemn drone of the organ wuthin, unable to summon up resolu- 
tion to move from the spot and present himself to his unsuspect- 
ing family. 

It was a cold night, with a howling wind, and high in the 
blue-black sky fleecy -white clouds were coursing swiftly along ; 
he obliged himself to set out at last, and walked down the flags 
toward his house, shivering, as much from nervousness as cold. 


192 


VICE VERSA. 


There was a dance somewhere in the terrace that evening — a 
large one; as far as he could see there were close ranks of car- 
riages with blazing lamps, and he even fancied he could hear 
the shouts of the link-boys and the whistles of the co7nmissi(yfi- 
aires. 

As he came nearer he had a hideous suspicion, which soon be- 
came a certainty, that the entertainment was at his own house; 
worse still, it was of a kind and on a scale calculated to shock 
and horrify any prudent householder and father of a family. 

The balcony above the portico was positively hung with gaudy 
Chinese lanterns, and there were even some strange sticks and 
shapes up in one corner that looked suspiciously like fireworks. 
Fireworks in Westbourne Terrace! What would the neighbors 
think or do? 

Between the wall which separates the main road from the ter- 
race and the street front there were no less than four piano-or- 
gans, playing, it is to be feared, by express invitation; and there 
was the usual crowd of idlers and loungers standing about by 
the awning stretched over the portico, listening to the music 
and loud laughter which came from the brilliantly-lighted upper 
rooms. 

Paul remembered then, too late, that Barbara, in that memo- 
rable letter of hers, had mentioned a grand children’s party as 
being in contemplation. Dick had held his tongue about it that 
morning, and he himself had not thought it was to be so soon. 

For an instant he felt almost inclined to turn away and give 
the whole thing up in sick despair — even to return to Rod well 
Regis and brave the doctor’s anger; for how could he hope fco 
explain matters to his family and servants, or get the Garuda 
Stone safely into his hands again before all these guests, in the 
whirl and tumult of an evening party? 

And yet he dared not, after all, go back to Crichton House — 
that was too terrible an alternative — and he obviously could not 
roam the world to any extent, a runaway schoolboy to all ap- 
pearance, and with less than a sovereign in his pocket! 

Alter a short struggle he felt he must make his way in, watch 
and wait, and leave the rest to chance. It was his evil fate, 
after all, that had led him on to make his escape on this night, 
of all others, and had allowed him to come through so much, 
only to be met with these unforeseen complications just when 
he might have imagined the worst was over. 

He forced his way through the staring crowd, and went down 
the steps into the area; for he naturally shrank from braving 
the front door, with its crowd of footmen and hired waiters. 

He found the door in the basement open, which was fortu- 
nate, and slipped quietly through the pantry, intending to reach 
the hall by the kitchen stairs. But here another check met 


VICE VEKSA. 


193 


him. The glass door which led to the stairs happened to be 
shut, and he heard voices in the kitchen, which convinced him 
that, if he wished to escape notice, he must wait quietly in the 
darkness until the door was opened for him, whenever that might 
be. 

The door from the pantry to the kitchen was partly open, 
however, and Mr. Bultitude could not avoid hearing everything 
that passed there, although every fresh word added to his un- 
easiness, until at last he would have given worlds to escape from 
his involuntary position of eavesdropper. 

There were only two persons just then in the kitchen — his 
cook, who, still in her working-dress, was refreshing herself, 
after her labors over the supper, with a journal of some sort; 
and the housemaid, who, in neat gala costume, was engaged in 
fastening a bow more securely in her mob-cap. 

“They haven’t give me a answer yet, Eliza,” said the cook, 
looking up from her paper. 

“ Lor’, cook!” said Eliza, “you couldn’t hardly expect it, see- 
ing you only wrote on Friday. ” 

“No more I did, Eliza. You see, it on’y began to come into 
my mind sudden like this last week. I’m sure I no more 
dreamt^ — But they’ve answered a lady who’s bin in much the 
same situation as me, aperiently. You just ’ark to this a min- 
ute.” 

And she proceeded to read from her paper: 

“ ‘ Lady Bird: You ask us (1) what are the signs by which 
you may recognize the first dawnings of your lover’s affection. 
On so delicate a matter we are naturally averse from advising 
you; your own heart must be your best guide. But perhaps 
we may mention a few of the most usual and infallible symp- 
toms.’ 

“ What sort of a thing is a symptim, Eliza?” 

“ A symptim, cook,” explained Eliza, “is a something wrong 
with the inside. Her at my last place in Cadogan Square had 
them uncommon bad. She was what they call aesthetical, pore 
young thing. Them infallible ones are always the worst.” 

“ It don’t seem to make sense though, Eliza,” objected cook, 
doubtfully. “ Hear how it goes on: 

“ ‘ Infallible symt)toms. If you have truly inspired him with 
a genuine and lasting passion ’ (don’t he write beautiful?) ‘ pas- 
sion, he will continually haunt those places in which you are 
most likely to be found ’ (I couldn’t tell you the times master’s 
bin down in my kitchen this last week) ; ‘ he will appear awk- 
ward and constrained in your presence ’ (anything more awkward 
than master / never set eyes on. He’s knocked down one of tho 


194 


VICE VERSA. 


best porcelain vegetables this very afternoon!); *be will beg for 
any little favors, some trifle, it may be, made by your own hand ’ 
(master’s always a-asking if I’ve got any of those doughnuts to 
give away); ‘and, if granted, he will treasure them in secret with 
pride and rapture ’ (I don’t think master kep’ any of them 
doughnuts though, Eliza. I saw him swaller five; but you 

couldn't treasure a doughnut, not to mention I’ll make him 

a pin-cushion, when I’ve time, and see what he does with it). 
‘If you detect all these indications of liking in the person you 
suspect of paying his addresses to you, you may safely reckon 
upon, bringing him to your feet in a very short space of time. 
(2) Yes, Fuller’s earth will make them exquisitely white.’ 

“There, Eliza!” said cook, with some pride, when she had 
finished; “if it had been meant forme it couldn’t have been 
clearer. Ain’t it written nice? And on’y to think of my bring- 
ing master to my feet. It seems almost too much for a cook to 
expect.” 

“ I w'ouldn’t say so, cook — I wouldn’t. Have some proper 
pride. Don’t let him think he’s only to ask and have! Why, 
in the London Journal last week there was a duke as married a 
governess; and I should ’ope as a cook ranked above a governess. 
Nor yet master ain’t a duke; he’s only in the city! But are you 
sure lie’s not only a trifling with your afiections, cook? He’s bin 
very affable and pleasant with all of us lately.” 

“It ain’t for me to speak too positive, Eliza,” said cook, 
almost bashfully, “ nor to lay bare the feelings of a bosom, be- 
yond what’s right and proper. You’re young yet, Eliza, and 
don’t understand these things — leastways, it’s to be hoped not 
(Eliza having apparently tossed her head); but do you remem- 
ber that afternoon last week as master stayed at home a-playing 
games with the children? I was a-goin’ up stairs to fetch my 
thimble, and there, on the bedroom landin’ was master all alone, 
with one of Master Dick’s toy guns in his ’and, and a old 
slouch ’at on his head. 

“ ‘Have you got a pass, cook?’ he says, and my ’art came 
right up into my mouth, he looked that severe and lofty at mo. 
I thought he was put out about somethink. 

“I said I didn’t know it was required, but I could get one,” 
I says, “ not knowing what he was alludin’ to all the same. 

“ But he says, quite soft and tender like (here Paul shivered 
with shame): ‘No, you needn’t do that, cook; there ain’t no oc- 
casion for it; only,’ he says, ‘if you haven’t got no pass, you’ll 
have to give me a kiss, you know, cook!’ I thought I should 
have sunk through the stairs, I was that overcome. I saw 
through his rouge with half an eye. ” 

“Why, he said the same to me,” said Eliza, “only I had a 


VICE VEESA. 


195 


pass, as luck had it, which Miss Barbara gave me. I’d ha’ 
boxed his ears if he’d tried it, too, master or no master!” 

“You talk light, Eliza,” said the cook, sentimentally, “but 
you wern’t there to see. It wasn’t only the words, it was the 
way he said it, and the ’ug he gave me at the time. It was as 
good as a proposial. And, I tell you, whatever you may say — 
and mark my words — I ’ave ’opes!” 

“Then if I was you, cook,” said Eliza, “I’d try if I could 
get him to sj)eak out plain in writing; then, whatever came of 
it, there’d be as good as five hundred pounds in your pockets.” 

“Love letters!” cried the cook, “why, if that’s all. Lord 

love you, Eliza Why, William, how you made me jump! 

I thought you was up seein’ to the supper-table.” 

“The pastry-cook’s man is looking after all that, Jane,” said 
Boaler’s voice. “I’ve been up outside the droring-room all this 
time, lookin’ at the games goin’ on in there. It’s as good as a 
play to see the way as master is a unbendin’ of himself, and such 
a out and out stiff un as he used to be, too! But it ain’t what I 
like to see in a respectable house. I’m glad I gave warning. It 
doesn’t do for a man in my position to compromise his charac- 
ter by such goings on. I never see anything like it in any 
families I lived with before. Just come up and see for your- 
self. You needn’t mind about cleaning of yourself — they won’t 
see you.” 

So the cook allowed herself to be persuaded by Boaler, and 
the two went up to the hall, and, to Mr. Bultitude’s intense re- 
lief, forgot to close the glazed door which cut him off from the 
staircase. 

As he followed them up stairs at a cautious interval, and 
thought over what he had just so unwillingly overheard, he 
felt as one who had just been subjected to a moral shower-bath. 

“That dreadful woman!” he groaned. “Who would have 
dreamed that she would get such horrible ideas into her head? 
I shall never be able to look either of those women in the face 
again; they will both have to go — and she made such excellent 
soup, too. I do hope that miserable Dick has not been fool 
enough to write to her — but no, that’s too absurd.” 

But more than ever he began to wish that he had stayed in 
the playground. 

When he reached the hall he stood there for some moments 
in anxious deliberation over his best course of proceeding. His 
main idea was to lie in wait somewhere for Dick, and try the re- 
sult of an appeal to his better feelings to acknowledge his out- 
cast parent and abdicate gracefully. 

If that failed, and there was every reason to expect that it 
would fail, he must threaten to denounce him before the whole 
party. It would cause a considerable scandal no doubt, and be 


196 


VICE VERSA. 


a painful thing to his own feelings, but still he must do it, or 
frighten Dick by threatening to do it; and at all hazards he 
must contrive during the interview to snatch or purloin the 
magic stone; without that he was practically helpless. 

He looked round him; the study was piled up with small 
boy’s hats and coats, and in one corner was a kind of refined 
bar, where till lately a trim housemaid had been dispensing cof- 
fee and weak lemonade; she might return at any moment; he 
would not be safe there. 

Nor would the dining-room be more secluded, for in it there 
was an elaborate supper being laid out by the waiters, which, as 
far as he could see through the crack in the door, consisted of 
lobsters, trifle, and pink champagne. He felt a grim joy at the 
sight, more than he would suffer for this night’s festivities. 

As he stole about, with a dismal sense of the unfltness of his 
sneaking about his own house in this guilty fashion, he became 
gradually aware of the scent of a fine cigar, one of his own special 
Cabanas. He wondered who had the impudence to trespass on 
his cigar-chest; it could hardly be one of the children. 

He traced the scent to a billiard-room which he had built out 
at the side of the house, which was a corner one, and, going 
down to the door, opened it sharply and walked in. 

Comfortably imbedded in the depths of a long, well-padded 
lounging chair, with a spirit-case and two or three bottles of 
soda-water at his elbow, sat a man who was lazily glancing 
through the “Field,” with his feet resting on the mantel-piece, 
one on each side of the blazing fire. He was a man of about 
the middle size, with a face rather bronzed and reddened by 
climate, a nose slightly equiline and higher in color, quick, 
black eyes, with an uneasy glance in them, bushy black whis- 
kers, more like the antiquated “Dundreary” type than modern 
fashion permits, and a wide, flexible mouth. 

Paul knew him at once, though he had not seen him for some 
years; it was Paradine, hffe disreputable brother-in-law — the 
“Uncle Marmaduke,” who, by importing themysterous Garud^ 
Stone, had brought all these woes upon him ; he noticed at once 
that his appearance was unusually prosperous, and that the vel- 
vet smoking-coat he wore over his evening dress was new and 
handsome. “No wonder,” he thought bitterly; “the fellow 
has been living on me for a week!” He stood by the cue-rack 
looking at him for some time, and then he said, with a cold, 
ironic dignity, that (if he had known it) came oddly from his 
boyish lips: “I hope you are making yourself quite comforta- 
ble?” . , 

Marmaduke put down his cigar and stared. “Uncommonly 
attentive and polite of you to inquire,” he said, at last, with a 
dubious smile, which showed a row of very white teeth, “who- 


VICE VERSA. 


197 


ever yon are. If it will relieve your mind at all to know, young 
man, I’m happy to say I am tolerably comfortable, thanks.” 

“I — I concluded as much,” said Paul, nearly choked with 
rage. 

“You’ve been very nicely brought up,” said Uncle Marma- 
duke; “ I can see that at a glance. So you’ve come in here, like 
me, eh? because the children bore you, and you want a quiet 
gossip over the world in general? Sit down, then; take a cigar, 
if you don’t think it will make you very unwell. I shouldn’t 
recommend it myself, you know, before supper — but you’re a 
man of the world and know what’s good for you. Come along, 
enjoy yourself till you find yourself getting queer — then drop 
it.” 

Mr. Bultitude had always detested the man; there w^as an un- 
derbred swagger and familiarity in his^ manner that made him 
indescribably offensive; just now he seemed doubly detestable, 
and yet Paul, by a strong effort, succeeded in controlling his 
temper. 

He could not afford to make enemies just then, and, objec- 
tionable as the man was, his astuteness made him a valuable 
ally; he determined, without considering the risk of making 
such a confidant, to tell him all and ask his advice and help. 

“ Don’t you know me, Paradine?” 

“ I don’t think I have the privilege; you’re one of Miss Bar- 
bara’s numerous young friends, I suppose? and yet, now I look 
at you, you don’t seem to be exactly got up for an evening party; 
there’s something in your voice, too, I ought to know.” 

“You ought,” said Paul, with a gulp. “My name is Paul 
Bultitude!” 

“ To be sure!” cried Marmaduke. “By Jove, then, you’re 
my young nephew, don’t you know; I’m your long-lost uncle, 
my boy, I am indeed (I’ll excuse you from coming to my arms, 
however; I never was good at family embraces). But, I say, 
you little rascal, you’ve never been " asked to these festivities; 
you ought to be miles away, fast asleep in your bed at school. 
What in the name of wonder are you doing here?” 

“I’ve — left school,” said Paul. 

“ So I perceive, sulky because they left you out of all this, 
eh? Thought you’d turn up in the middle of the banquet, like 
the specter bridegroom — ‘ the worms they crawled in, and the 
worms they crawled out, eh?’ Well, I like your pluck, but, 
ahem — I’m afraid you’ll find they’ve rather an unpleasant way 
of laying your kind of apparitions.” 

“Never mind about that,” said Paul, hurriedly; “I h^e 
something I must tell you — I’ve no time to lose -I’m a desper- 
ate man!” 

“You are,” Paradine assented with a loud laugh; “oh, you 


198 


VICE VEKSA. 


are indeed! ‘a desperate man.’ Capital! a stern chase, eh? the 
schoolmaster close behind with the birch? It’s quite exciting, 
you know, but, seriously, I’m very much afraid you’ll catch it!” 

“ If,” began Mr. Bultitude in great embarrassment, “if I was 
to tell you that I was not myself at all — but somebody else, a — 
in fact, an entirely different person from what I seem to you to 
be — I suppose you would laugh?” 

“I beg your pardon,” said his brother-in-law, politely, “I 
don’t think I quite catch the idea!” 

“ When I assure you now, solemnly, as I stand here before 
you, that I am not the miserable boy whose form I am con- 
demned to — wear, you’ll say it is incredible?” 

“Not at all — by no means, I quite believe you. Only (really 
it’s a mere detail), but I should rather like to know, if you’re 
not that particular boy, what other boy you may happen to be? 
You’ll forgive my curiosity.” 

“I’m not a boy at all — I’m your own unhappy brother-in- 
law, Paul! You don’t believe me, I see?” 

“Oh, pardon me, it’s perfectly clear! you’re not your own 
son, but your own father — it’s a little confusing at first, but no 
doubt common enough. I’m glad you mentioned it, though.” 

“Goon,” said Paul, bitterly, “make light of it; you fancy 
you are being very clever, but you will find out the truth in 
time.” 

“Not without external assistance, I’m afraid,” said Paradine, 
calmly. “ A more awful little liar for your age I never saw — 
don’t you think you can lie pretty well yourself?” 

“I’m tired of this,” said Paul. “ Only listen to reason and 
common sense.” 

“ Only give me a chance.” 

“I tell you,” protested Paul, earnestly, “ it’s the sober, awful 
truth — I’m not a boy; it’s years since I was a boy; I’m a middle- 
aged man, thrust into this — this humiliating form!” 

“Don’t say that,” murmured the other; “it’s an excellent fit 
— very becoming, I assure you. ” 

“ Do you want to drive me mad with your clumsy jeers?” 
cried Paul. ‘ ‘ Look at me. Do I speak, do I behave, like an 
ordinary schoolboy?” 

“ I really hope not — for the sake of the rising generation,” 
said Uncle Marmaduke, chuckling at his own powers of rep- 
artee. 

“You are very jaunty to-day; you look as if you were well 
off,” said Paul, slowly. “I remember a time when a certain 
bill was presented to me, drawn by you, and appearing to be ac- 
cepted (long before I over saw it) by me. I consented to meet 
it for my poor Maria’s sake, and because to disown my signa- 
ture would have ruined you for life. Do you remember how 


VICE VERSA. 


199 


you went down on your knees in my private room and swore 
you would reform and be a credit to your family yet? You 
weren’t quite so well off, or so jaunty then, unless I am very 
much mistaken.” 

These words had an extraordinary effect upon Uncle Marma- 
duke ; he turned ashy white, and his quick eyes shifted rest- 
lessly as he half rose from his chair and threw away his unlin- 
ished cigar. 

“ You young hound!” he said, breathing hard and speaking 
under his breath. “How did you get hold of that — that lying 
story? Your father must have let it out! Why do you bring 
up bygones like this? You — you’re a confounded, disagreeable 
little prig! Who told you to play an ill-natured trick of this 
sort on an uncle, who may have been wild and reckless in his 
youth — was, in fact — but who never, never misused his relation 
toward you as — as an uncle?” 

“ How did 1 get hold of the story?” said Paul, observing the 
impression he had made. “ Do you think if I were really a boy 
of thirteen I should know as much about you as I do? Do you 
W'ant to know more? Ask, if you dare! Shall I tell you how it 
was you left your army-coach without going up for examination? 
Will you have the story of your career in my old friend Parkin- 
son’s countin'g-house, or the real reason of your trip to New 
York, or what it was that made your father add that codicil, 
cutting you off with a set of engravings of the ‘ Rake’s Pro- 
gress,’ and a guinea to X3ay for framing them? I can tell you 
all about it, if you care to hear.” 

“ No!” shrieked Paradine, “I won’t listen. When you grow 
up, ask your father to buy you a society journal! You’re cut out 
for an editor of one. It doesn’t interest me.” 

“ Do you believe my story or not?” asked Paul. 

“I don’t know. Who could believe it?” said the other, sul- 
lenly. “ How can you possibly account for it?” 

“ Do you remember giving Maria a little sandal-wood box with 
a small stone in it?” said Paul. ' 

“I have some recollection of giving her something of that 
kind. A curiosity, wasn’t it?” 

“I wish I had never seen it. That infernal stone, Paradine, 
has done all this to me. Did no one tell you it was supposed to 
have any magic power.” 

“ Why, now I think of it, that old black rascal, Bindabun 
Doss, did try to humbug me with some such story, said it was 
believed to be a talisman, but the secret was lost. I thought it 
was just his stingy way of trying to make the rubbish out as 
something priceless, as it ought to have been, considering all I 
did for the old ruffian. ” 

“You told Maria it was a talisman. Bindabun what’s-his* 


200 


VICE VERSA- 


name was right. It is a talisman of the deadliest sort. I’ll soon 
convince you if you will hear me out.” 

And then, in white-hot wrath and indignation, Mr. Bultitude 
began to tell the story I have already attempted to sketch here, 
dwelling bitterly on Dick’s heartless seltishuess and cruelty, and 
piteously on his own incredible sufferings, while Uncle Marma- 
duke, lolling back in his arm-chair, with an attempt (which 
was soon abandoned) to retain a smile of amused skept’cigni 
on his face, heard him out in complete silence and with all due 
gravity. 

Indeed, Paul’s manner left him no room for further unbelief. 
His tale, wild and improbable as it was, was too consistent and 
elaborate for any schoolboy to have invented, and, besides, the 
imposture would have been so entirely purposeless. 

When his brother-in-law had come to the end of his sad his- 
tory, Paradine was silent for some time. It was some relief to 
know that the darkest secrets of his life had not been ferreted 
out by a phenomenally sharp nephew; but the change in the 
situation was not without its drawbacks; it remained to be seeu 
how it might affect himself. He already saw his reign in West- 
bourne Terrace threatened with a speedy determination, unless 
he played his cards well. 

“Well,” he said at last, with a swift, keen glance at Paul, 
who sat anxiously waiting for his next words, “suppose I 
were to say that I think there may be something in this 
story of yours, what then? What is it you want me to do for 
you?” 

“Why,” said Paul, “with all yon owe to me, now you know 
the horrible injustice I have had to bear, you surely don’t mean 
to say that you won’t help me to right myself?” 

“ And if I did help you, what then?” 

“Why, I should be able to recover all I have lost, of course,” 
said Mr. Bultitude. He thought his brother-in-law had grown 
very dull. 

“Ah, but I mean, what’s to become of me?” 

“ You?” repeated Paul (he had not thought of that). “Well, 
hum, from what I know and what you know that I know about 
vour past life, you can’t expect me to encourage you to remain 
here?” 

“ No,” said Uncle Marmaduke. “Of course not; very right 
and proper.” 

“But,” said Paul, willing to make all reasonable concessions, 
“ anything I can do to advance your prospects — such as paying 
your passage out to New York, you know, and so on — I should 
be very ready to do.” 

“ Thank you!” said the other. 

“And even, if necessary, provide you with a small fund to 


VICE VERSA. 201 

start afresh upon. Honestly,” said Paul, “you will not find me 
difficult to deal with.” 

“It’s a dazzling proposition,” remarked Paradine, dryly. 
“ You have such an alluring way of putting things. But the 
fact is, you’ll hardly believe it, but I’m remarkably well off here. 
I am indeed. Your son, you know, though not you (except as 
a mere matter of form), really makes, as they say of the marma- 
lade in the advertisements, an admirable substitute. I doubt, I 
do assure you, whether you yourself would have received me 
with quite the same warmth and hospitality I have met with 
from him.” 

“So do I,” said Paul; “very much.” 

“Just so; for, without your admirable business capacity and 
extraordinary firmness of character, you know, he has, if you’ll 
excuse my saying so, a more open, guileless nature, a more en- 
tire and touching faith in his fellow*-man and brother-in-law, 
than were ever yours.” 

“ To say that to me,” said Paul, hotly, “is nothing less than 
sheer impudence.” 

“My dear Paul (it does seem deuced odd to be talking to a 
litcle shrimp like you as a grown-up brother-in-law. I shall get 
used to it presently, I daresay). I flatter myself I am a man of 
the world. We’re dealing with one another now, as the lawyers 
have it, at arm’s length. Just put yourself in my place (you’re 
so remarkably good at putting yourself in other people’s places, 
you know). Look at the thing from my point of view, xlcci- 
dentally dropping in at your offices to negc-tiate (if I could) a 
small temporary loan from any one I chanced to meet on the 
premises, I find myself, to my surprise, welcomed with effusion 
into what I then imagined to be your arms. More than that, I 
was invited here for an indefinite time, all my little eccentrici- 
ties unmentioned, overlooked. I was deeply touched (it struck 
me, I confess, at one time that you must be touched too), but I 
made the best use of my opportunities. I made hay while the 
sun shone.” 

“Do you mean to make me lose my temper?” interrupted 
Paul. “ It will not take much more.” 

“ I have no objection. I find men as a rule easier to deal with 
when they have once lost their temper, their heads so often go 
too. But to return: a man with nerve and his fair share of 
brains, like myself, only wants a capitalist (he need not be a 
millionaire) at his back to conquer the world. It’s not by any 
means my first campaign, and I’ve had reverses, but I see vic- 
tory in my grasp, sir, in my grasp at last!” 

Paul groaned. 

“ Now you — it’s not your fault, I know, a mere defect of con- 
stitution — but you, as a speculator, were, if I may venture to 


202 


VICE VEESA. 


put it so, not worth your salt; no boldness, no dash, all caution. 
But your promising son is a regular whale on speculation, and I 
may tell you that we stand in together in some little ventures 
that would very probably make your hair stand on end — you 
wouldn’t have touched them. And yet there’s money in every 
one of them.” 

“I daresay there is,” said Paul, savagely; “I won’t have any 
of my money in them.” 

“You don’t know much about these things, you see,” said 
Marmaduke; “ I tell you I have my eye on some fine openings 
for capital.” 

Your pockets always were very fine openings for capital,” re- 
torted Paul. 

“Ha! ha! deuced sharp that! But, to come to the point, you 
were always a sensible, practical kind of a fellow, and you must 
see that, for me to back you uji and upset this young rascal, who 
has stepped into your slippers, might be morally meritorious 
enough, but, treating it from a pecuniary point of view, it’s not 
business.” 

“I see,” said Mr. Bultitude, heavily; “ then you side against 
me?” 

“Did I ever say I would side against you? Let us hear first 
what you propose to do.” 

Paul, upon this, explained that, as he believed the stone still 
retained its power of granting one wish to any other person 
who happened to get hold of it, his idea was to get possession 
of it somehow from Dick, who would probably have it about 
him somewhere, and then to pass it on to some one whom he 
could trust not to misuse it so basely. 

“A good idea that, Paul, my boy,” said Paradine, smiling; 
“but you don’t imagine our young friend would be quite such 
an idiot as not to see your game! Why, he would pitch the 
stone ill the gutter, and stamp it to powder, rather than let you 
get hold of it.” 

“He’s quite capable of it,” said Paul; in fact, he threatened 
to do ivorse than that. I doubt if I shall ever be able to man- 
age it myself; but what am I to do? I must try, and I’ve no 
time to lose about it either.” 

“I tell you this,” said Marmaduke, “if you let him see you 
here, it’s all up with you. What you want is some friend to 
uuuiage this for you — some one he won’t suspect. Now, sup- 
pose 1 were willing to risk it for you?” 

“You!” cried Paul, with involuntary distrust. 

“Why not?” said Marmaduke, with a touch of feeling. “Ah, 
I see, you can’t trust me. You’ve got an idea into your head 
that I’m a thorough-paced rascal, without a trace of human 
feeling about me. I daresay I deserve it; I daresay I do; but 


VICE VERSA. 


203 


it’s not generous, my boy, for all that. I hope to show you 
your mistake yet, if you give me the chance. You allow your- 
self to be prejudiced by the past; that’s where you make your 
mistake. I only put before you clearly and plainly what it 
was I was giving up in helping you. A fellow may have a 
hard, cynical kind of way of putting things, and yet, take my 
word for it, Paul, have a heart as tender as a spring chicken 
underneath. I tell you I’m sorry for you. I don’t like to see 
a family man of your position in such a regular deuce of a hole. 
I feel bound to give you a lift out of it, and let my prospects 
take their own chance. 1 leave the gratitude to you. When I’ve 
done, kick me down the doorsteps if you like. I shall go out 
into the world with a glow of self-approval (and rapid motion) 
warming my system. Take my advice — don’t attempt to tackle 
Master Dick yourself. Leave him to me.” 

“If I could only make up my mind to trust you!” muttered 
Paul. 

“The old distrust,” cried Marmaduke; “you can’t forget. 
You won’t believe a poor devil like me can have any gratitude, 
any disinterestedness left in him. Never mind. I’ll go. I’ll 
leave it to you. I’ll send Dick in here, and we shall see whether 
he’s such a fool as you think him.” 

“No,” said Paul, “no; I feel you’re right; that would never 
do.” 

“It would be for my advantage, I think,” said the other; 
“ but you had better take me while I am in a magnanimous 
mood; the opportunity may never occur again. Come, am I to 
help you or not? Yes or no?” 

“ I must accept,” said Paul, reluctantly. “I can’t find Boal- 
er now, and it might take hours to make him see what I wanted. 
I’ll trust to your honor. What shall I do?” 

“Do? Get away from this; he’ll be coming in here very soon 
to see me. Bun away and play with the children or hide in the 
china closet — anything but stay here.” 

“I — I must be here while you are managing him,” objected 
Paul. 

“Nonsense!” said Paradine, angrily. “I tell you it will spoil 
all, unless you — who’s that? it’s his step — too late now — dash it 
all! Behind that screen, quick — don’t move for your life till I 
tell you you may come out!” 

Mr. Bultitude had no choice; there was just time to set up an 
old folding screen which stood in a corner of the room and slip 
behind it before the door opened. 

It might not be the highest wisdom to trust everything to his 
new ally in this manner; but what else could he do, except stand 
by in forced inactivity while the momentous duel was being 
fought out? Just then, at all events, he saw no other course. 


204 


VICE VERSA. 


CHAPTER XVin. 

KUN TO EAETH. 

** The is noon in this hous schuld bynde me this night.” 

— The Coke's Tale of Gamelyn, 

Dick burst open the door of the billiard -room rather suddenly, 
and then stood holding on to the handle and smiling down upon 
his relative in a happy and affectionate but rather weak manner. 

“ So here you are!’* he said. “ Been looking for you every- 
where What’s good of shutting ’self in here? Come up and 
play gamesh. No? Come in and have shupper. I’ve had 
sliupper.” 

“So I perceive,” observed Up cle Marmaduke; and the fact 
was certainly obvious enough. 

“Tell y’ what I did,” giggled the wretched Dick. “You 
know I never did get what 1 call regular good blow out — alw'ays 
some one to shay ‘ had quite ’nough ’ ’fore I’d begun. So I 
thought this time I would have a tuck-in till — till I felt tired, 
and I— he-he-he — I got down ’fore anybody elsh and helped 
myshelf. Had first go-in. No one to help to thingsh. No 
girlsh to bother. It was j)rime! When they’ve all gone up 
again you and me ’ll go in and have shome more, eh?” 

You’re a model host,” said his uncle. 

“It’s a good shupper,” Dick went on. “I ought to know. 
I’ve had some of everything. It’sh almost too good for kids. 
But it’sh a good thing I went in first. After I’d been in a little 
time I saw a sponge-cake on the table, and when I tried it, what 
d’ye think I found? It was as full inside of bran dy-an ’-sherry 
as it could be. All it could do to shtand! I saw d’rectly it 
washn’t in condition come to table, and I said: ‘ Take it away! 
take it away! It’sh drunk; it’sh a dishgraceful sight for chil; 
drent’ But they wouldn’t take it away; sho I had to take it 
away. But you can’t take away a whole tipshy-cake!” 

“lam quite sure you did your best,” murmured Paradine. 

“Been having such gamesh up-stairs!” said Dick, with another 
giggle. “That lil’ Dolly Merridew’s jolly girl. Not sho nice 
as Dulcie, though. Why didn’ we invite Dulcie? I wanted 
them to invite Dulcie. Here, you, let’sh go up and let off fire- 
worksh on balcony, eh? Let’sh have jolly lark!” 

“No, no,” said his uncle. “You and I are too old for that 
sort of thing. You should leave the larks to the young fellows.” 

“How do you know Pm too old for sorterthing?” said Dick, 
with an offended air. 


VICE VERSA. 


205 


** Well, you’re not a young man any longer, you know. You 
ought to behave like the steady old buffer you look.” 

“ Why?” demanded Dick; “ why should I behave like shteady 
ole buffer, when I don’ feel shteady ole buffer? What do you 
want shpoil fun for? Tell you I shall do jus’ zackly wharri- 
please. And, if you shay any more. I’ll punch y’ head!” 

“ No, no,” said his uncle, slightly alarmed at this intimation. 
“ Come, you’re not going to quarrel with me. I’m sure! ’ 

“All ri’,” said Dick. “No; I won’ quarrel. Don* wanter 
f quarrel anybody.” 

“ That’s right,” said Paradine. “I knew you were a noble 
fellow!” 

“Sho I am,” said Dick, shaking hands with effusion. “ Sho 
are you. Nearly ash noble ’sh me. There, you’re jolly good 
fellow. I say, I’ve goo’ mind tell you something. Make you 
laugh. But I won’t; not now.” 

“Oh, you can tell me,” said Marmaduke. “No secrets be- 
tween friends, you know.” 

“ Sha’n’t tell you now,” said Dick. “Keep shecret little 
longer. ” 

“ Do you know, my friend, that there’s something very odd 
about you I’ve noticed lately! Something that makes me al- 
most fancy sometimes you’re not what you pretend to be.” 

Dick sat down heavily on one of the leather benches placed 
against the wall. 

“Eh, what shay?” he gasped. “Say tharragain.” 

“ You look to me,” said Marmaduke, slow’iy, “ like some one 
excellently made up for the part of heavy father, without a no- 
tion how to play it. Dick, you young dog, you see I know you! 
You can’t take me in with all this. You’d better tell me all 
about it.” 

Dick seemed almost sobered by this shock. 

“You've found me out,” he repeated, dully. “Then it’s 
all up. If you’ve found me out, everybody else can find me 
out!” 

“No, no; it’s not so bad as that, my boy. I’ve better eyes 
than most people, and then I had the privilege of knowing your 
excellent father rather well once upon a time. You haven’t 
studied his little peculiarities closely enough; but you’ll im- 
prove. By the wav, where is your excellent father all this 
time?” 

“He’s all right,” said Dick, beginning to chuckle. “ He-be. 
He’s at school, he is!” 

“At school! You mean to say you’ve put him to school at 
his time of his life? He’s rather old for that sort of thing, isn't 
he? They don’t take him on the ordinary terms, do they?” 


206 


VICE VERSA. 


“Ah,” said Dick, “ tliat’sh where it is. He isn’t old, yon 
see, now, to look at. I took care of all that.” 

“Not old to look at! Then how on earth I should like 

to know how you managed all that. What have you been doing 
to the old gentleman?” 

“ That’sh my afiair,” said Dick. “ An’ if I don’ tell you, you 
won’ find that out, anyway.” 

“ There’s only one way you could have done it,” said Para- 
dine, pretending to hesitate. “It must have been done by 

some meddling with magic. Now what Let me see — 

yes Surely the stone I brought your poor mother from 

India was given to me as a talism.an of some sort? You surely 
can’t have been sharp enough to get hold of that!” 

“How did you know?” cried Dick, sharply. “Who told 
you?” 

“I am right then? Well, you are a clever fellow. I should 
like to know how you did it, now?” 

“Did it with the shtone,” said Dick, evidently discomposed 
by such unexpected penetration, but unable to prevent a little 
natural complacency. “ All my own idea. No one helped me. 
It — it washn’t sho bad for me, wash it?” 

“Bad! it was capital!” cried Marmaduke, enthusiastically. 
“ It was a stroke of genius. And so my Indian stone has done 
all this for you. Sounds like an Arabian Night, by Jove! By 
the by, you don’t happen to have it about you, do you? I 
should rather like to look at it again. It’s a real curiosity after 
this.” 

Paul trembled with anxiety. Would Dick be induced to part 
with it? If so, he was saved. But Dick looked at his uncle’s 
outstretched hand, and wagged his head with tipsy cunning. 

“ I dare say you would,” he said, “ but I’m not sho green as 
all that. Don’t let that stone out of my hands for any one.” 

“ Why, I only wanted to look at it for a minute or two,” said 
Marmaduke; “ I wouldn’t hurt it or lose it.” 

“ You won’t get chance,” said Dick. 

“Oh, very well,” said Paradine, carelessly, “just as you 
please, it doesn’t matter; though, when we come to talk things 
over a little, you may find it better to trust me more than that.” 

“Wha’ do you mean?” said Dick, uneasily. 

“Well, I’ll try to explain as well as I can, my boy (drink ^ 
little of this soda-water first; it’s an excellent thing after sup- 
per); there, you’re l>etter now, aren’t you? Now, I’ve found you 
out, as you see; but only because I knew something of the 
powers of this stone of yours, and guessed the rest. It doesn’t 
at all follow that other people, who know nothing at all, will be 
as sharp; if you’re more careful about your behavior in future 


VICE VERSA. 


207 


— unless, unless, young fellow ’’ and here he paused mean- 

ingly. 

“ Unless what?” asked Dick, suspiciously. 

“ Unless I chose to tell them what I’ve found out.” 

“ What would you tell them?” said Dick. 

“What? Why, what I know of this talisman; tell them to 
use their eyes; they wouldn’t be very long before they found 
out that something was wrong. And when one or two of your 
father’s friends once get hold of the idea, your game will be 
very soon over; you know that as well as I do.” 

“But,” stammered Dick, “you wouldn’t go and do beastly 
mean thing like that? I’ve not been bad fellow to you.” 

“ The meanness, my dear boy, depends entirely upon the view 
you take of it. Now, the question with me, as a man of honor 
— and I may tell you an over-nice sense of honor has been a 
drawback I’ve had to struggle against all my life — the question 
with me is this: Is it not my plain duty to step in and put a 
stop to this topsy-turvy state of things, to show you up as the 
bare-faced young imposter you are, and restore my unhappy 
brother-in-law to his proper position?” 

“ Very well expressed,” thought Paul, who had been getting 
uncomfortable; “he has a heart, as he said, after all!” 

“ How does that seem to strike you?” added Paradine. 

“It shtrikes me as awful rot,” said Dick, with refreshing 
candor. 

“ It’s the language of conscience, but I don’t expect you to 
see it in the same light. I don’t mind confessing to you, either, 
that I’m a poor devil to whom money and a safe and respectable 
position (all of which I have here) are great considerations. 
But whenever I see the finger of duty and honor, and family 
afiection, all beckoning me along a particular road, I make a 
point of obeying their monitions — occasionally. I don’t mean 
to say that I never have bolted down a back way instead, when 
it was made worth my while, or that I never will.” 

“ I wonder what he’s driving at now,” thought Paul. 

“I don’t know about duty and honor, and all that,” said 
Dick. “ My head aches; it’s the noise they’re making up stairs. 
Are you goin’ to tell?” 

“ The fact is, my dear boy, that when one has had a keen sense 
of honor in constant use for several years, it's like most other 
articles — apt to become a little the worse for wear. Mine is not 
what it used to be, Dicky (that’s your name, isn’t it?). Our 
powers fail as we grow old.” 

“ I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Dick, help- 
lessly. “ Do tell me what you mean to do?” 

“ Well, then, your head’s clear enough to understand this 
much, I hope,” said Paradine, a little impatiently; “that, if I 


208 


VICE VERSA. 


did my duty and exposed yon, you wouldn’t be able to keep up 
the fiirce for a single hour, in spite of all 3? our i^ersonal advan- 
tages; you know that, don’t you?” 

“ I siipose I know that,” said Dick, feebly. 

“You know, too, that if I could be induced — mind, I don’t 
say I can — to hold my tongue, and stay on here and look after 
you, and keep you from betraying yourself by any more of these 
schoolboy follies, there’s not much fear that any one else will 
ever find out tlie secret ” 

“ Which are you going to do, then?” said Dick. 

“ Suppose I say that I like you, that you have shown me more 
kindness in a single week than ever your respectable father has 
since I first made his acquaintance. Suppose I say that I am 
willing to let the sense of honor and duty, and all the rest of it, 
go overboard together; that we two together are a match for 
papa, wherever he may be, and whatever he chooses to say and 
do?” 

There was a veiled defiance in his voice that seemed meant for 
more than Dick, ana alarmed Mr. Bultitude; however, he tried 
to calm his uneasiness, and persuade himself that it was a part 
of the plot. 

“ Will you say that?” cried Dick, excitedly. 

“On one condition, which I'll tell you by and by. Yes, I’ll 
stand by you, my boy; I’ll coach you till I make you a man of 
business every bit as good as j^our father, and a much better 
man of the world. I’ll show you how to realize a colossal for- 
tune, if you only take my advice. And we’ll pack papa off to 
some place abroad where he’ll have no holidays and give no 
trouble. ” 

“No,” said Dick, firmly; “I won’t have that. After all, he’s 
my governor.” 

“ Do w'hat you like with him, then; he can’t do much harm. 
I tell you. I’ll do all this, on one condition —it's a very simple 
one ” 

“ What is it?” asked Dick. 

“ This. You Lave, somewhere or other, the Stone that has 
done all this for you — you may have it about you at this mo- 
ment — ah!” (as Dick made a sudden movement toward his whit© 
waistcoat) “I thought so! Well, I want that Stone. You were 
afraid to leave it in my hands for a minute or two just now; you 
must trust me with it altogether.” 

Paul was relieved; of course this was merely an artifice to re- 
cover the Garuda Stone, and Marmaduke was not playing him 
false after all; he w'aited breathlessly for Dick’s answer. 

“No,” said Dick, “ I can’t do that; I want it, too.” 

“ Why, man, what use is it to you? It only gives you one 
wish; you can’t use it again.” 


VICE VERSA. 


209 


Dick mnmbled something about his being ill, and Barbara 
wishing him well again. 

“ I suppose I can do that as well as Barbara,” said his uncle. 

** Come, don’t be obstinate; give me the Stone; it’s very impor- 
tant tliat it should be in safe hands.” 

“No,” said Dick, obstinately; he was fumbling all the time 
irresolutely in his pockets; “ I mean to keep it myself.” 

“Very well,, then, I have done with you. To-morrow morn- 
ing I shall step up to Mincing Lane, and then to your father’s 
solicitor. I think his offices are in Bedford Row% but I can< 
easily find out at your father’s place. After that, young man, ^ 
you’ll have a very short time to amuse yourself in, so make the 
best of it.” 

“ No, don't leave me; let me alone for a minute,” pleaded Dick, 
still fumbling. 

At this a sudden suspicion of his brother-in-law’s motives for 
w ishing to get the Stone into his own hands overcame all Paul's 
prudence. If he was so clever in deceiving Dick, might he 
not be cheating him, too, just as completely? He could wait no 
longer, but burst from behind the screen and rushed in between 
the pair. 

“Go back!” screamed Paradine. “You infernal old idiot, 
you’ve ruined everything!” 

“I v^on’t go back,” said Paul. “I don’t believe in you. I'll 
hide no longer. Dick, I forbid you to trust that man.” 

Dick had risen in horror at the sudden apparition, and stag- 
gered back against the wall, where he stood staring stupidly at 
his unfortunate father with fixed and vacant eyes. 

“ Badly as you’ve treated me. I’d rather trust you than that 
shifty, plausible fellow^ there. Just look at me, Dick, and then 
say if you can let this cruelty go on. If you knew all I’ve suf- 
fered since I have been among those infernal boys, you would 
pity me, you would indeed. ... If you send me back 
there again, it will kill me. . . . You know as w^ell as I do 

that it is worse for me than ever it could be for you. . . . 

You can’t really justify yourself because of a thoughtless wdsh 
of mine, spoken without the least intention of being taken at 
my word. Dick, I may not have shown as much affection for 
you as I might have done, but I don’t think I deserve all 
this. Be generous with me now, and I swear you will never re- 
gret it. 

Dick’s lips moved; there really was something like pity and 
repentence in his face, muddled and dazed as his general ex- 
pression was by his recent over-indulgence, but he said nothing. 

“Give papa the Stone by all means, sneered Paradine. “ If 
you do, he will find some one to wish the pair of you back again, 


210 


VICE VERSA. 


and then, back yon go to school again, the langhing-stock of 
everybody, you silly young cub!” 

‘‘ Don’t listen to him, Dick,” urged Paul. “ Give it to me, 
for heaven’s sake; if you let him have it, he’ll use it to ruin us all. 

But Dick turned his white face to the rival claimants, and 
said, getting the words out with difficulty: “ Papa, I’m shorry. 
It is a shame. If I had the Shtone, I really would give it you, 
upon my word-an’-honor I would. But — but, now I can never 
give it up to you. It’sh gone. Loshtl” 

“Lost!” cried Marmaduke. “When — where? When do you 
last recollect seeing it? You must know.” 

“In the morning,” said Dick, twirling his chain, where part 
of the cheap gilt fastening still hung. “No; afternoon. I don’t 
know,” he added, helplessly. 

Paul sank down on a chair with a heart-broken groan. A mo- 
ment ago he had felt himself very n<^ar his goal; he had regained 
something of his old influence over Dick; he had actually man- 
■ aged to touch his heart — and now it was all in vain ! 

Paradine’s jaw fell; he, too, had had his dreams of doing won- 
derful things with the talisman after he had cajoled Dick to part 
with it. "Whether the restoration of his brother-in-law formed 
any part of his programme, it is better, perhaps, nob to inquire. 
His dreams were scattered now; the Stone might be anywhere 
—buried in London mud, lying on railway ballast, or ground to 
powder by cart-wheels. There was little chance, indeed, that 
even the most liberal rewards would lead to discovery. He 
swore long and comprehensively. 

As for Mr. Bultitude, he sat motionless in his chair, staring 
in dull, speechless reproach at the conscience- stricken Dick, 
who stood in the corner blinking and whimpering with an ab- 
ject penitence, odd and painful to see in one of his portly form. 
The children had now apparently finished supper, for there 
were sounds above as of dancing, and “ Sir Roger de Coverley,” 
with its rollicking, never- wearying repetition, was distinctly 
audible above the din and laughter. Once before — a week ago 
^ that very day — had that heartless piano mocked him with its un- 
’ timely gayety. 

But things were not at their worst even yet, for, while they 
sat like this, there was a sharp, short peal at the house-bell, fol- 
lowed by loud and rather angry knocking, for, carriages being 
no longer expected, the servants and waiters had now closed 
the front door, and left the passage for the supper-room. 

“The visitors’ bell!” cried Paul, roused from his apathy; and 
he rushed to the window which commanded a side-view of the 
portico; it might be only a servant calling for one of the chil- 
dren, but he feared the worst, and could not rest till he 
knew it. 


VICE VERSA. 


211 


It was a rash thing to do, for, as he drew the blind, he saw a 
large person in a heavy Inverness cloak standing on the steps, 
and (which was worse) the person saw him and recognized him. 

V ith fascinated horror, Mr. Bultitude saw the doctor’s small 
gray eyes fixed angrily on him, and knew that he was hunted 
down at last. 

He turned to the other two with a sort of ghastly composure: 
“ It’s all over now,’' he said. “I’ve just seen Dr. Grimstone 
standing on my door-step; he has come after me.” 

Uncle Marmaduke gave a malicious little laugh. “ I’m sorry 
for you, my friend,*’ he said, “ but I really can’t help it.” 

“ You can,” said Paul; “you can tell him what you know. 
You can save me.” 

“ Very poor economy that,” said Marmaduke, airily. “ I pre- 
fer spending to saving — always did. 1 have my own interests 
to consider, my dear Paul.” 

“Dick,” said poor Mr. Bultitude, disgusted at this exhibi- 
tion of selfishness, “you said you were sorry just now.. Will 
you tell him the truth?” 

But Dick was quite unnerved; he cowered aw^ay, almost crying, 

“ I daren’t, I daren’t,” he stammered; “ 1 — I can’t go back to 
the fellow's like this. I’m afraid to tell him. I — I w'an’t to hide 
somewhere.” 

And certainly he was in no condition to convince and angry 
schoolmaster of anything whatever, except that he was in a state 
very unbecoming to the head of a family. 

It was all over; Paul saw that too well; he dashed frantically 
from the fatal billiard-room, and in the hall met Boaler prepar- 
ing to admit the visitor. 

“Don’t open. the door!” he screamed. “ Keep him out; you 
mustn’t let him in. It’s Dr. Grimstone.” 

Boaler, surprised as he naturally was jat his young master’s 
unaccountable appearance and evident panic, nevertheless never 
moved a muscle of his face; he was one of those perfectly bred 
servants who, if they chanced to open the door to a ghoul or 
skeleton, would merely inquire, “ What name, if you please?” 

“I must go and ask your par then, Master Dick; there’s 
time to ’ook it up stairs while I’m gone. I won’t say nothing,” 
he added, compassionately. 

Paul lost no time in following this suggestion, but rushed up- 
stairs, two or three steps at a time, stumbling at every flight, 
with a hideous nightmare feeling that some invisible thing be- 
hind was trying to trip up his heels. 

He rushed blindly past the conservatory, which was lit up by 
Chinese lanterns, and crowded with “ little Kate Greenaway ” 
maidens crowmed with fantastic head-dresses out of the crackers, 
and comparing presents with boy-lovers; he upset perspiring 


212 


VICE VERSA. 


waiters with glasses and trays, and scattered the children sitting 
on the stairs, as he bounded on in his reckless flight, leaving 
crashes of glass behind him. 

He had no clear idea of what he meant to do; he thought of 
barricading himself in his bedroom and hiding in the wardrobe; 
he had desperate notions of getting on to the housetop by means 
of a step-ladder and the skylight above the nursery landing; 
on one point he was resolved — he would not be retaken 
alive ! 

Never before in this commonplace London world of ours was 
an unfortunate householder hunted up his owm staircase in this* 
distressing manner; even his terror did not blind him to the 
extreme ignominy and injustice of his position. 

And below he heard the bell ringing more and more impa- 
tiently, as the doctor still remained on the wrong side of the 
door. In another minute he must be admitted — and then! 

Who will not sympathize with*Mr. Bultitude as he approaches 
the crisis of his misfortunes? I protest, for my own part, that, 
as I am compelled to describe him springing from step to step 
in wild terror, like a highly respectable chamois before some 
Alpine marksman, my own heart bleeds for him, and I hasten to 
end my distressing tale and make the lest of it as little painful 
as I may with honesty. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE BECKONING. 

'‘Montr. The father is victorious. 

Belf. Let us haste 

To gratulate his conquest. 

1st Capt. We to mourn 

The fortune of the son.” 

Massinger, The Unnaturul Comhai. 

Poor Mr. Bultitude, springing wildly up stairs in a last des- 
perate effort to avoid capture, had now almost reached his goal. 
Just above him was the nursery landing, with its little wooden 
gate, and near it, leaning against the wall, was the pair of kit- 
chen steps, with which he had hopes of reaching the roof, or 
the cistern loft, or so<ne other safe and inaccessible place. Bet- 
ter a night spent on the slates among the chimney-pots than a 
bed in that terrible No 6. Dormitory. 

But here, too, fate was against him. He was not more than 


VICE VERSA. 


213 


half a dozen steps from the top when, to his unspeakable horror, 
he saw a small form in a white frock and cardinal-red sash 
come running out of the nursery, and begin to descend slowly 
and cautiously, clinging to the banisters with one chubby little 
hand. 

It was his youngest son, Roly, and as soon as he saw this he 
lost hope once and for all; he could not escape being recog- 
nized; the child would probably refuse to leave him, and, even 
if he did contrive to get away from him, it would be hopeless 
to make Roly understand that he was not to betray his hiding- 
place. 

So he stopped on the stairs, aghast at this new misfortune, 
and feeling himself at the end of all his resources. Roly knew 
him at once, and began to dance delightedly up and down on 
tlie stair in his little bronze shoes. “ Buzzer Dicky,” he cried, 
“ dear buzzer Dicky, turn ’ome to party!” 

“It’s not brother Dicky,” said Paul, miserably; “it’s all a 
mistake.” 

“Oh, but it is, though,” said Roly; “and you don’t know 
what Roly’s found.” 

“No no,” said Paul, trying to pass (which, as Roly persisted 
in leaping joyously from side to side of the narrow stair, was 
difficult); “ you shall show me another time. I’m in a hurry, 
my boy, I’ve got an appointment.” 

“Roly’s got something better than that,” observed the child. 

Mr. Bnltitude, in spite of his terror, was too much afraid of 
hurting him by brushing roughly past to attempt such a thing, 
so he tried diplomacy. “Well, what has Roly found, a 
cracker?” 

“No, no, better than a cwacker — you guess.” 

“I can’t guess,” said Paul; “never mind, I don’t want to 
know.” 

“Well, then,” said Roly, “ there.” And he slowly unclosed a 
fat little fist, and in it Paul saw, with a revulsion of feeling that 
tnrned him dizzy and faint, the priceless talisman itself^ the 
i lentical Garuda Stone, with part of the gilt ring still attached 
t!> it. 

The fastening had probably given way dufing Master Dick’s 
U]n’oarlou3 revels in the drawing-room, and Roly must have 
jiicked it up on the carpet shortly afterward. 

“ Isn’t it a pitty sing?” said Roly insisting that hia treasure 
should be duly admired. 

“ A very pretty tiling,” slid his father, hoarse and pantingi 
“ hut it’s mine, Roly; it’s mine.” 

And he tried to snatch it, but Roly closed his fist over it, and 
pouted. “It isn’t yours,” he said, “ it’s Roly’s. Roly found it.” 

Paul’s fears rose again; would he be wrecked in port, aftef 


214 ' 


VICE VERSA. 


all? His ear, unnaturally strained, caught the sound of the 
front-door being opened; he heard the doctor's deep voice boom- 
ing faintly below, then the noise of persons ascending. 

“ Roly shall have it,’* he said, perfidiously, “if he will say 
after me what I tell him. Say, ‘I wish papa and brother Dick 
back as they were before,’ Roly.” 

“ Ith it a game?” asked Roly, his face clearing, and evidently 
delighted with his eccentric brother, Dick, who had run all the 
way home from school to play games with him on the staircase. 

“No — yes!” cried Paul, “it's a very funny game; only do 
what I tell you. Now say: ‘ I wish papa and brother Dick back 
again as they were before.’ I’ll give you a sugar-plum if you 
say it nicely. ” 

“ What sort of sugar-plum?” demanded Roly, who inherited 
business instincts. 

“Any sort you like best,” almost shrieked Paul; “oh, do 
get on.” 

“Lots of sugar-plums, then. ‘I wish’ — I forget what you 

told me — oh! ’I with papa and ’ there’th thomebody tum- 

ming up sthairs! ’ he broke off suddenly; “ it’h nurth tummin’ 
to put me to bed. I don’t want to go to bed yet.” 

“And you sha’n’t go to bed!” cried Paul, for he, too, thought 
he heard some one. “ Never mind nurse; finish the — the 
game.” 

“ ‘ Papa and buzzy Dicky back again as — ab they were be- 
fore,’ ” repeated Roly at last. “What a funny — ow, ow, it’h 
papa! it’h p^pa! and he told me it wath Dicky. I’m afraid, 
Whereth Dicky gone to? I want Bab, take me to Bab.” 

For the stone had done it’s Avork once more, and this time 
with happier results; with a supreme relief and joy, Avhich no 
one who has read this book can fail to understand, Mr. Bulti- 
tude felt that he actually was his own self again. 

Just when all hoj^e seemed cut off and relief was most un- 
likely, the magic spell that had caused him such intolerable 
misery for one hideous w^eek was reversed by the hand of an in- 
nocent child. 

He caught Roly..up in his arms and kissed him as he had 
never been kissed in his whole life before, at least by his father, 
and comforting him as well as he could, for the poor child had 
naturally received rather a severe shock, he stepped airily down 
the staircase, which he had mounted Avith such different emo- 
tions five minutes before. 

On his Avay, he could not resist going into his dressing-room 
and assuring himself by a prolonged examination before the 
cheval-glass that the stone had not played him some last piece 
of jugglery; but he found everything quite correct; he Avas the 
same formal, precise and portly old gentleman, Avearing the 


VICE VEESA. 


215 


same morning dress, even as on that other Monday evening, and 
he went on with greater confidence. 

He took care, however, to stop at the first window, when he 
managed, after some coaxing, to persuade Roly to give up the 
Garuda Stone. As soon as he hf»d it in his hands again, he 
opened the window wide and flung the dangerous talisman far 
out into the darkness. Not till then did he feel perfectly secure. 

He j)assed the groups of little guests gathered about the con- 
servatory, and lower down he met Eoaler, the nurse, a^d one or 
two servants and waiters, rushing up in a state of great anxiety 
and flurry; even Roaler’s usual composure seemed shaken. 
“Please, sir,” he asked, “the schoolmaster gentleman, Master 
Dick — he’ve run up-stairs; haven’t you seen him?” 

Paul had almost forgotten Dick in his new happiness; there 
would be a heavy score to settle with him; he had the upj^er 
hand once more, and yet, somehow, he did not feel as much 
righteous wrath and desire for revenge as he had expected to 
do. 

Don’t be alarmed,” he said, waving them back with more 
benignity than they thought he had in him. “ Master Dick is 
safe enough. I know all about it. Where is Dr. Grimstone? 
In the library, eh? very w'ell, I will see him there.” 

And, leaving Roly with the nurse, he went down to the libra- 
ry; not, if the truth must be told, without a slight degree of 
nervousness, unreasonable and unaccountable enough now, but 
quite beyond his power to control. 

He entered the room, and there, surrounded by piles of tick- 
eted hats and coats, under the pale light of one gas-burner, he 
saw the terrible man, before whom he had trembled for the last 
seven horrible days. 

A feeling of self-defense made Paul assume rather more than 
his old stiffness as he shook hands. “lam very glad to see 
you. Dr. Grimstone,” he said, “ but your coming at this time 
forces me to ask if there is any unusual reason for — for my hav- 
ing the — a — pleasure of seeing you here?” 

“ I am exceedingly distressed to have to say that there is,” 
said the doctor, solemnly, “ or I should not have troubled you 
at this hour. Try to compose yourself, my dear sir, to bear this 
blow.” 

“I will,” said Paul, “ I will try.” 

“ The fact is, then, and I know how sad a story it must be for 
a parent’s ear, but the fact is, that your unhappy boy has had 
the inconceivable rashness to quit my roof.’* And the doctor 
paused to w’atch the effect of liis announcement. 

“ God bless my soul!” cried Paul. “You don’t say so!” 

“Ido, indeed; he has, in short, run away. But don’t be 
alarmed, my dear Mr, Bultitude; I think I can assure you he is 


216 


VICE VERSA. 


quite safe at the present moment.” (“Thank heaven, he is!” 
thought Paul, thinking of his own marvelous escape). “I 
shoiihl certainly have recaptured him before he could have left 
the railway station, where he seemed to have gone at once, only, 
acting on inforniation (which I strongly suspect now was inten- 
tionally misleading), I drove on to the station on the up-line, 
thinking to find him there. He was not there, sir; I believe he 
never went there at all; but, guessing how matters were, I 
searched the train, carriage by carriage, compartment by com- 
partment, when it came up.” 

“ I am very sorry you should have had so much trouble,” said 
Paul, with a vivid recollection of the exploring stick; “and so 
you found him?” 

“ No, sir,” said the doctor, passionately, “I did not find him, 
but he was there; he must have been there! but the shameless 
connivance of two excessively ill-bred^ persons, who positively 
refused to allow me access to their compartment, caused him to 
slip through my fingers.” 

Mr. Bultituae observed, rather ungratefully, that, if this was 
so, it was a most improper thing for them to do. 

“It was, indeed, but it is of no consequence, fortunately. I 
was forced to wait for the next train; but that was not a very 
slow one, and so I was able to come on here before a very late 
hour and acquaint you with what had taken place.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said Paul. 

“ It s a painful thing to occur in a school,” observed the doc- 
tor, after a pause. 

“Most unfortunate,” agreed Paul, coughing. 

“ bo apt to lead persons who are not acquainted with the facts 
to imagine that the boy was unhappy under my care,” contin- 
ued the doctor. 

“In this case, I assure you, I have no doubts,” protested Paul 
with politeness and (seldom a possible combination) perfect 
truth. 

“ Very kind of you to say so; really, it’s a great mystery to 
me. I certainly, as I felt it my duty to inform you at the time, 
came very near inflicting corporal punishment upon him this 
morning very near. But then he was pardoned on your inter- 
cession; and, besides, the boy w’ould never have run away for 
fear of a flogging.” 

“Oil, no, perfectly absurd!” agreed Paul again. 

“Such a merry, high-spirited lad, too,” said the doctor, sin- 
cerely enough; “ popular with his schoolfellows; a favorite (in 
spite of his faults) with his teachers.” 

“ No, was he though?” said Paul, with more surprise, for he 
liad not been fortunate enough to reap much vicarious benefit 
Irom his son s poi^ularity, as he could not help remembering. 


VICE VERSA. 


217 


“ All tills, added to the comforts (or, maj I say, the luxuries?) 
he enjoyed under my supervision, does make it seem very 
strange and ungrateful in the boy to take this sudden and ill- 
considered stej^. ” 

“ Vt;ry, indeed; but do you know, Dr. Grimstone, I can’t 
help thinking — and pray do not misunderstanu me if I speak 
plainly — that, perhaps, he had reasons for being unhappy you 
can have no idea of?” 

“ He would have found me ready to hear any complaints and 
prompt to redress them, sir,” said the doctor. “But, now I 
think of it, he certainly did appear to have something on his ' 
mind which he wished to tell me; but his manner was so strange, 
and he so persistently refused to come to the point, that I was 
forced to discourage him at last.” 

“You did discourage him, indeed!” said Paul, inwardly, 
thinking of those attempted confidences with a shudder. “ Per- 
haps some of his schoolfellows may have — eh?” he said aloud. 

“ My dear sir,” exclaimed the doctor, “ quite out of the ques- 
tion!” 

“Do you think so?” said Paul, not being able to resist the 
suggestion. “ And yet, do you know, some of them did not ap- 
pear to me to look very — very good-natured, now.” 

“A more manly, pleasant, and gentlemanly set of youths 
never breathed!” said the doctor, taking up the cudgels for his 
boys, and, to do him justice, probably with full measure of belief 
in his statement. “ Curious now that they should have struck 
you so differently!” 

“ They certainly did strike me very differently,” said Paul. 
“But I may be mistaken.” 

“You are, my dear sir. And, pardon me, but you had no 
opportunity of testing your opinion.” 

“ Oh, pardon me.” retorted Paul, grimly, “ I had, indeed!” 

“A cursory visit,” said the doctor, “a formal inspection — 
you cannot fairly judge boys by that. They will naturally be 
reserved and constrained in the presence of an elder. But you 
should observe them without their knowledge— you want to 
know them, my dear Mr. Bultitude, you want to go among 
them!” 

It was the very last thing Paul did want — he knew them quite 
well enough; but it was of no use to say so, and he merely 
assented politely. 

“ And now,” said the doctor, “ with regard to your misguided 
boy. I have to tell you that he is here, in this very house. I 
tracked him here, and, ten minutes ago, saw him with my own 
eyes at one of your windows.” 

“ Here!” cried Paul, with a well-executed start; “you astonish 


218 


VICE VERSA. 


‘‘It has occuiTed to me within the last minute,” said the 
doctor, “ that there maj be a very simple explanation of his 
flight. I observe you are giving a — a juvenile entertainment on 
a large scale. ” 

“1 suppose I am,” Paul admitted. “And so you think ” 

“I think that your son, Avho doubtless knew of your inten- 
tion, was hurt at being excluded from the festivities, and, in a 
fit of mad, willful folly, resolved to be present at them in spite 
of you.” 

“My dear doctor,” cried Paul, who saw the conveniences of 
this theory, “ that must be it, of course — that explains it all!” 

“ So grave an act of insubordination,” said the doctor, “an 
act of double disobedience — to your authority and mine — de- 
serves the fullest punishment. You agree with me, I trust?” 

The memory of his wrongs overcame Mr. Bultitude for the 
moment. “ Nothing can be too bad for the little scoundrel!” he 
said, between his teeth. 

“He shall have it, sir, I swear to you; he shall be made to 
repent this as long as he lives. This insult to me (and, of 
course, to you also) shall be amply atoned for. If you will have 
the goodness to deliver him over to my hands, I will carry him 
back at once to Rod well Regis, and to-morrow, sir, to-morrow, 
I will endeavor to awaken his conscience in a way he will re- 
member!” 

The doctor was more angry than an impartial lover of justice 
might perhaps approve of, but then it must be remembered that 
he had seen himself completely outwitted and his authority set 
at naught in a very liumiliating fashion. 

However, his excessive wrath cooled Paul’s own resentment 
instead of inflaming it; it made him reflect that, after all, it was 
he who had the best right to be angry. 

“Well,” he said, rather coldly, “we must And him first, and 
then consider Avhat shall be done to him. If you will allow me 
I will ring and ” 

But before he could lay his hand upon the bell, the library 
door opened, and Uncle Marmaduke made his appearance, diag- 
♦ gitig with him the unwilling Dick. The unfortunate boy was 
effectually sobered now — pale and trembling, and besmirched 
with coal-dust — in fact, in very much the same plight as his ill- 
used father had been in only three hours ago. 

Tliere was a brazen smile of triumph on Mr. Paradine’s face 
as he met Paul’s eyes with a knowing wink, which the latter did 
not at all understand. 

Such audacity astonished him, for be could hardly believe that 
Paradine, after his perfidious conduct in the billiard-room, could 
have the clumsy impudence to try to propitiate him now. 

“Here he is, my boy,” shouted Paradine; “here’s the scamp 


VICE VERSA. 


219 


who has given us all this trouble. He came into the billiard- 
room just now and told me who he was, but I would have noth- 
ing to do with him, of course. Not my business, as I told him 
at the time. Then (I think I have the pleasure of seeing Dr. 
Grimstone? just so) — well, then, you, sir, arrived — and he made 
himself scarce. But when I saw him in the act of making a bolt 
up the area, where he had been taking shelter apparently in the 
coal-celler, I thought it was time to interfere, and so I collared 
him. I have much pleasure in handing him over now to the 
proper authorities.” 

And, letting Dick go, he advanced toward his brother-in-law, 
still wdth the same odd expression of having a secret under- 
standing with him, which made Paul’s blood boil. 

“ Stand where you are, sir,” said Paul to his son. “ No, Dr. 
Grimstone, allow me — leave him to me for the present, please.” 

“That’s much better,” whispered Paradine, approvingly; 
“ capital. Keep it up, my boy; keep it up! Papa’s as quiet as 
a lamb now. Gp on.” 

Then Paul understood; his worthy brother-in-law had not 
been present at the last transformation, and was under a slight 
misapprehension; he evidently imagined that he had by this last 
stroke made himself and Dick masters of the situation. It was 
time to undeceive him. 

“Have the goodness to leave my house at once, will you?” he 
said, sternly. 

“You young fool!” said Marmaduke, under his breath, “after 
all I’ve done for you, too! Is this your gratitude? You know 
you can’t get on without me. Take care what you're about.” 

“If you can’t see that the tables are turned at last,” said Paul, 
slowly, “you're a duller knave than I take you to be.” 

Marmaduke started back with an oath. “It’s a trick,” he 
said, savagely; “you want to get rid of me.” 

“I certainly intend to,” said Paul. “Are you satisfied? Do 
you want proofs — shall I give them? I did just now in the bil- 
liard-room.” 

Paradine went to Dick, and shook him angrily. “You young 
idiot!” he said, in a furious aside, “ why didn’t you tell me?” 
Why did you let me make a fool of myself like this for, eh?” 

“I did tell you,” muttered Dick, “only you wouldn’t listen. 
It serves you just right!” 

Marmaduke soon collected himself after this unexpected shock; 
lie tried to shake Paul’s hands with an airy geniality. “Only 
my little joke,” he said, laughing; “ha, ha! I thought I should 
take you in! . . . Why, I knew it directly. . . . I’ve been 
working for you all the time — but it wouldn’t have done to let 
you see my line.” 

“No,” said Paul; “it was not a very straight one, as usual.” 


220 


VICE VERSA. 


“Well,” said Marmaduke, “I shouldn’t have stopped Master 
Dick there if I hadn’t been on your side, should I now? I knew 
you’d come out of it all right, but I had a difficult game to play, 
don’t you know? I don’t wonder that you didn’t follow me just 
at first.” 

“You’ve lost your game,” said Paul; “it’s no use to say any 
more. So now, perhaps, you’ll go?” 

“ Go, eh?” said Paradine, without showing much surprise at 
the failure of so very forlorn a hope; “oh, very well, just as 
you please of course. Let your poor wife’s only brother go from 
your doors without a penny in the world; but I warn you that 
a trifle or so laid out in stopping my mouth would not be thrown 
away. Some editors would be glad enough of a sensation from 
real life just now, and I could tell some very odd tales about this 
little affair.” 

“Tell them, if a character for sanity is of no further use to 
you,” said Paul. “ Tell them to any one you can get to believe 
you — tell the crossing-sweeper and the policeman, tell your 
grandmother, tell the horse marines — it will amuse them. Only 
you shall tell them on the other side of my front door. Shall I 
call any one to show you out?” 

Paradine saw his game was really played out, and swaggered 
insolently to the door. “Not on my account, 1 beg,” he said. 
“Good-by, Paul, my boy; no more dissolving views! Good-by, 
my young friend Richard; it was good fun while it lasted, eh? 
like the Servian crown — always a pleasant reminiscence! Good- 
evening to you, doctor. By the way, for educational purposes 
let me recommend a ‘ Penang law’yer ’ — buy one as you go back 
for the boys — to show them you’ve been thinking of them!” 

And, having little luggage to impede him, the front door 
closed upon him shortly afterward — this time forever. 

When he had gone, Dick looked imploringly at his father, and 
then at the doctor, who, until Paradine’s parting w’ords had 
lashed him into fury again, had been examining the engravings 
on the walls with a studied delicacy during the recent painful 
scene, and was now leaning against the chimney-piece, with his 
arms folded and a sepulchral gloom on his brow. 

“Richard,” said Mr. Bultitude, in answer to the look, “you 
have not done much to deserve consideration at my hands.” 

“ Or at mine!” added the doctor, ominously. 

“No,” said Dick, “I know I haven’t. I’ve been a brute. I 
deserve a jolly good licking.” 

“You do,” said his father, but, in spite of his indignation, 
the broken-down look of tlie boy and the memory of his own 
sensations when waiting to be caned that morning, moved him 
to pity. And then Dick had shown some compunction in the 
billiard-room; he was not entirely lost to feeling! 


VICE VERSA. 


221 


“Well,” he said, at last, “youVe acted very wrongly. Be- 
cause I thought it best that you should not — ahem — leave your 
studies for this party, yoa chose to disobey me and alarm your 
master, by defying my orders and coming home by stealth — that 
was your object, I presume?” 

“ Y — yes,” said Dick, looking rather puzzled, but seeing that 
he was expected to agree; “ that was it.” 

“ You know as well as I do what good cause I have to be 
angry; but, if I consent to overlook your conduct this time, if I 
ask Dr. Grimstone to overlook it, too,” (the doctor made an in- 
articulate protest, while Dick stared, incredulous), “ will you 
undertake to behave better for the future — will you?” 

Dick’s voice broke at this, and his eyes swam — he was effectu- 
ally conquered. “Oh, I*will!” he cried, “I will, really. I 
never meant to go so far when I began.” 

“Then, Dr. Grimstone,” said Paul, “you will do me a great 
favor if you will take no further notice of this. You see the boy 
is sorry, and I am sure he will apologize to you amply for the 
grave slight he has done you. And, by the way — I should have 
mentioned it before — but he will have to leave your care at the 
end of the term for a public school — I intend to send him to 
Harrow — so he will require some additional preparation, per- 
haps; I may leaye that in your hands?” 

Dr. Grimstone looked deeply offended, but he only said, “I 
will see to that, myself, my dear sir. I am sorry you did not 
tell me this earlier. But, may I suggest that a large public 
school has its pitfalls for a boy of your son’s disposition. And 
I trust this leniency may not liave evil consequences, but I doubt 
it — I greatly doubt it.” 

As for Dick, he ran to his father and hung gratefully on to 
his arm with a remorseful hug, a thing he had never dared to 
do, or thought of attempting, in his life till then. 

“ Papa,” he said, in a choked voice, “you’re a brick! I don’t 
deserve any of it, but I’ll never forget this as long as I live.” 

Mr. Bultitude, too, felt something spring up in his heart 
which drew him toward the boy in an altogether novel manner, 
but no one will say that either was the worse for it. 

“ Well,” he said, mildly, “ prove to me that I have made no 
mistake. Go back to Crichton House now, work and play well, 
and try to keep out of mischief for the rest of the term. I 
tiust to you,” he added, in a lower tone, “while you remain 
at Bod well Regis, to keep my — my connection with it a se- 
cret; you owe tliat at least to me. You. may probably, have 
— ahem, some inconveniences to put up with — inconveniences 
you are not prepared for. You must bear them as your pun- 
ishment.” 

And soon afterward a cab was called*, and Dr. Grimstone 


222 


VICE VERSA. 


prepared to return to Rodwell Regis, with the deserter, bj 
the last train. 

As Paul shook hands through the cab-window with his 
prodigal son, he repeated his warning. “ Mind,” he said, 

you have been at school all this past week; you have run 
away to attend this party, you understand? Good-by, my 
boy, and here’s something to put in your pocket, and — and 
another for Jolland; but he need not know it comes from 
me.” And when Dick opened his hand afterward, he found 
two half-sovereigns in it. 

So the cab rolled away, and Paul went up to the drawing- 
room, where, although he certainly allowed the fireworks on 
tlie balcony and in the garden to languish forgotten on their 
sticks, he led all the other revels hp to an advanced hour 
with a jovial abandon quite worthy of Dick, and none of his 
little guests ever suspected the change of host. 

Wlien it was all over, and the sleepy children had driven off, 
Paul sat down in an easy chair by the bright fire, which sparkled 
frostily in his bedroom, to think gratefully over all the events 
of the day — events which were beginning already to take an un- 
real and fantastic shape. 

Bitterly as he had suffered, and in spite of the just anger and 
thirst for revenge with which he had returned, \ am glad to say 
he did not regret the spirit of mildness that had stayed his hand 
when hi^ hour of triumph came. 

His experiences, unpleasant as they had been, had had their 
advantages; they had drawn him and his family closer to- 
gether. 

In his daughter Barbara, as she wished him good-night (know- 
ing nothing, of course, of the escape), he had suddenly become 
aware of a girlish freshness and grace he had never looked for or 
cared to see before. Roly, after this, too, had a claim upon him 
he could never wish to forget, and even with the graceless Dick 
there w^as a warmer and more natural feeling on both sides — a 
strange result, no doubt, of such unfilial behavior, but so it 
was. 

Mr. Bultitude would never after this consider his family as a 
set of troublesome and thankless incumbrances; thanks to 
Dick’s offices during the interregnum, they would henceforth 
throw off their reserve and constraint in their father’s presence, 
and, in so doing, open his eyes to qualities of which he had 
hitherto been in contented ignorance. 

******** 

It would be pleasanter, perhaps, to take leave of Mr. Bulti- 
tude thus, as he sits by his bedroom fire in the first fiush of 
sui^reme and unalloyed content. 


VICE VERSA. 


223 


But I feel almost bound to point out a fact which few will 
find any difficulty in accepting — namely, that, altliough the 
wrong had been retrieved without scandal or exposure, for which 
Paul could not be too thankful, there were many consequences 
which could not but survive it. 

Neither father nor son found himself exactly in the same 
position as before the exchange of characters. 

It took Mr. Bultitude considerable time and trouble to repair 
all the damage his son’s boyish excesses had wrought both at 
Westbourne Terrace and in the city. He found the discipline of 
his clerks’ room and counting-house sorely relaxed, and his office- 
boy in particular attempted a tone toward him of such atroci- 
ous familiarity that he was indignantly dismissed, much to his 
astonishment, the very first day. And probably Paul will never 
quite clear himself of the cloud that hangs over a man of busi- 
ness who, in the course of however well regulated a career, is 
known to have been at least once “a little odd.” 

And his home, too, was distinctly demoralized; his cook was 
an artist, unrivaled at soups and entrees; but he had to get rid of 
her, notwithstanding. 

It was only too evident that she looked upon herself as the 
prospective mistress of his household, and he did not feel called 
upon as a parent to fulfill any expectations which Dick’s youth- 
ful cupboard-love had unintentionally excited. 

Por some time, as fresh proof of Dick’s extravagances came 
home to him, Paul found it cost no little effort to restrain a^ 
tendency to his former bitterness and resentment, but he valued 
the new understanding between himself and his son too highly 
to risk losing it again by any open reproach, and so with each 
succeeding discovery the victory over his feelings became 
easier. 

As for Dick, he found the inconveniences at which his father 
had hinted anything but imaginary, as will perhaps be easily 
understood. 

It was an unpleasant shock to discover that in one short week 
his father had contrived somehow to procure him a lasting pop- . 
ularity. He was obviously looked upon by all, masters and 
boys, as a confirmed coward and sneak. And although some of 
his companions could not fairly reproach him on the latter score, 
the imputation was particularly galling to Dick, who had always 
treated such practices with sturdy contempt. 

He was sorely tempted at times to right himself by declaring 
the real state of the case; but he remembered his promise and 
his father’s unexpected clemency, and his gratitude always kept " 
him silent. 

He never quite understood how it was that the whole school 
seemed to have an impression that they could kick and assault 


224 


VICE VERSA. 


V 

him generally -with perfect impunity; but a few very unsuccess- 
ful experiments convinced him that this was a popular error on 
their part. 

Although, however, in everything else he did gradually suc- 
ceed in recovering all the ground his father had lost him, vet 
J respect in which, I am sorry to say, he found all 

his efforts to retrieve himself hopeless. 

His pretty princess, with the gray eyes and soft brown hair, 
^uelly refused to have anything more to do with him. For 
Dulcie’s pride had been wounded by what she considered his 
shameless perfidy on that memorable Saturday by the parallel 
bars, and the last lingering traces of affection had vanished be- 
fore Paul’s ingratitude on the following Monday, and she never 
forgave him. 

She did not even give him an opportunity of explaining him- 
self, never by word or sign, up to the last day of the term, 
showing that she was even aware of his return. What was 
worse, in her resentment she transferred her favor to Tipping 
who became her humble slave for a too brief period; after whic^ 
he was found wanting in polish, and was ignominiously thrown 
over for the shy new boy Kiffin, whose head Dick found a certain 
nielancholv pleasure in punching in consequence. 

This was Dick’s punishment, and a very real and heavy one 
he found it. He is at Harrow now, where he is doing fairly 
well; but I think there are moments even yet when Dulcie’s 
4 charming little face, her pretty confidences, and her chilling 
disdain, are remembered with something as nearly resembling a 
heartache as a healthy, unsentimental boy can allow himself. 

Perhaps, if some day he goes back once more to Crichton 
House “to see the fellows,” this time with the mysterious 
glamour of a great public school about him, he may yet obtain 
forgiveness, for she is getting horribly tired of Kiffin, who, to 
tell the truth, is something of a milksop. 

As for the Garuda Stone, I really can not say what has be- 
come of it. Perhaps it was dashed to pieces on the cobble- 
stones of the stables behind the terrace, and a good thing too. 
Perhaps it was not, and is still in existence, with all its danger- 
ous power as ready for use as ever it was; and in that case the 
best I can wish my readers is, that they may be mercifully pre- 
served from finding it anywhere, or if they are unfortunate 
enough to come upon it, that they may at least be more careful 
with it than Mr. Paul Bultitude, by whose melancholy example 
1 trust they will take timely warning. 

And with these very severe wishes I beg to bid them a reluct- 
ant farewell. 


THE EXD. 


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